Promises Are Binding
by School of Seven Bells
Summary: parent!lock daughter!lock AU: Sherlock Holmes hardly ever mentions his daughter; mostly because she's irrelevant to his work. When the death of her mother forces her to move to Baker Street, the self-proclaimed sociopath is in for perhaps a bit more than he bargained for.
1. Een: His Best Kept Secret

A/N: Somewhat AU, but I believe that I'm keeping the characters hardly OOC if at all- just the plot is AU. I'm really determined to keep the characters as in-character as possible.

How is the present tense writing? Past tense was weird for me. I'm thinking about writing the rest of the fic in Amelia's POV first person, which with parts being third person. I can switch to past tense verbs if it's too weird.

This first chapter takes place between The Blind Banker and The Great Game. The story title comes from an Afrikaans phrase "promises are binding." The chapters will be titled with an Afrikaans number, followed by chapter title. Afrikaans is a language spoken in South Africa that is linguistically similar to Dutch. Since my OC comes from South Africa, I thought it would be a fun touch.

POSSIBLE future Johnlock, but for now, I'm sticking to epic bromance. I'm open to the possibility of writing Johnlock but only if the muse tells me to.

* * *

I've learned that we're all entitled to have our secrets.

― Nicholas Sparks

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Een: His Best Kept Secret**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes doesn't talk about his family much, which would be the perfect explanation for as to why so few people knew that his daughter existed. It's not like he is ashamed of her, because he's not, but it's that she is irrelevant. His personal life is something that he likes to keep very personal and bragging on his kid isn't very high on his priority list. Not even John Watson knew about her- keyword being _knew_. Sherlock had no choice but to mention her to John after his conversation with Mycroft earlier in the day.

:-:

Sherlock crosses his legs and straightens his back, anxious to leave his brother's house before the conversation ever starts. _Where was it that he's just come home from? Oh, Slovenia, that's right. _"Have we been cheating on our diet while overseas, Mycroft?"

"Pleasure to have you," he ignored the jibe. "As usual."

"Mycroft if you're wasting my time this evening I will kill you and make it look like an accident. This had better be important."

The elder brother smiles and gestures to the folder in his arm. "Brother I can promise you that it of the utmost importance to both of us. It is especially important to you- at least it _should _be. Whether it truly is or not remains unclear."

"Mycroft," Sherlock whines. "What are you on about, what could you possibly be on about? If you don't mind could we simply get to the point, because I have cases I can be working on and-"

"Rachel Amelia."

Sherlock's jaw involuntarily tightens upon hearing his daughter's name. Rachel Amelia, named for her grandmother and usually known as Amelia, is someone who probably shouldn't exist. The product of a drunken night at uni, Amelia is, in the kindest representation of the word, an accident.

Anelle Ten Eyck, a South African native of Dutch ancestry, had flown through the South African education system and completed her secondary education at an early age. At the age of fourteen, Anelle left her native Johannesburg for Cape Town to study law in the coastal city. By taking summer classes she graduated with her law degree three years later. She could have stopped there and had a promising career as is, but she was accepted into the doctoral program at Oxford. The South African was seventeen (one year his junior) when she met Sherlock.

It didn't take her long to fall head over feet for him. He didn't fall in love with her, but he took interest of another kind. Truthfully, he enjoyed her as a person and she was the first person he'd met in a very long time with whom he could hold an enjoyable conversation. Even some of their professors failed to provide him that luxury. Sherlock was fascinated by her cleverness, her witty comments and her sass, and he would have to be blind to not at least acknowledge that the blue-eyed redhead was attractive. It was closer to an infatuation than anything else. Anelle, while hopelessly in love, wasn't dim. She knew that whatever Sherlock felt for her wasn't nearly as strong as what she felt for him, but it was enough. A lonely expatriate in a foreign land, Anelle settled for whatever the young Englishman was willing to give her.

Sherlock never felt a desire to be _loved _by her; he thought highly enough of her to consider her an 'almost friend' but that was essentially it. Shortly after their pseudo-friendship began, a drunken night resulted in Anelle getting pregnant (which made things so terribly awkward thereafter.) The Holmes family came from old money- the money paid for Sherlock's Oxford education, Mycroft's double major at Cambridge, and any medical bills regarding Sherlock's 'accidental offspring.' Mycroft thought that the idea of Sherlock having a child was hilarious. _I could have made a fortune betting on that, little brother. _Peter Holmes berated his son for his carelessness, but sweet Rachel Holmes demanded to meet the woman carrying her grandchild. Begrudgingly, he introduced his mother to his classmate. The women hit it off, and from that first meeting onward Rachel insisted on being present for the birth. In fact when Anelle went into labor a full four weeks before her due date, Rachel Holmes was the first person she called. The baby, Rachel Amelia Marlize Holmes-Ten Eyck was named for her grandmother Rachel Emily Holmes. Sherlock would have much preferred for his daughter to simply be a Holmes, but Anelle tacked her name onto the end anyway. He also didn't think she should have had two middle names as he found the concept of middle names to be superfluous, but it was "tradition" in Anelle's family.

Amelia spent the first three years of her life in England. Her parents never lived together, but maintained an awkward sort of friendship. Anelle eventually completed her doctorate in law, and returned to South Africa- taking Amelia with her. Anelle's heart broke with the separation, but Sherlock was largely indifferent other than, yes, he admits, Amelia.

Sherlock Holmes hated children (in general.) If he were to be frank, he can't believe that he ever was one himself. Having a child of his own was always the last thing on his mind, but once he had one he was determined to be a good father…at first. Peter Holmes wasn't an affectionate man. Sherlock and Mycroft have not one good memory of their father. Mycroft had it rough, but Sherlock got the worst of it. After Amelia was born, Sherlock promised himself that though he knew he would never be a great father, he would be one that his daughter could think about with a smile rather than with disgust. That desire waned quite a bit after she moved to South Africa with her mother.

The first year after Anelle's return to South Africa was radio silence besides holiday photographs of Amelia. The following year, the same year Amelia joined Kindergarten, Anelle came up with enough money to enable international calling on her home telephone which started Sherlock's daily phone calls with the child. The first time Amelia visited her dad in London, she was six and spent her school holidays with him. For the following four years, every school break was spent in London with Dad, Uncle Mycroft, and sometimes Gramma Rachel.

Over time, the daily phone calls waned to weekly or bi-weekly until they eventually became once every few weeks. Amelia didn't know it, but during this time her father fell in and out of drug use and entered rehab twice. _So much for being a good father, _Sherlock thought cynically as he shot up with heroin one night. Amelia was eleven when she finally realized what her father was doing to himself.

Sherlock hadn't heard directly from his daughter in nearly a full year- last he heard from her, she was about to turn fifteen and was excited about getting her braces removed. He has a picture of Amelia taken about six months ago (sent in the mail by Anelle), and last time he saw her in person, she was eleven. He never once visited his daughter in her native South Africa; he cared, but not over-one-thousand-quid plane ticket cared. Other than the one photograph from Anelle, it had been radio silence since his last phone call.

Impatiently, Mycroft taps his fingers against the chair's arm. "Are you done thinking, brother?"

"What about her?"

"Patience," Mycroft sighs. "Is a virtue, dear brother. Take a look at this crime scene photograph, then look at the victim's name."

Sherlock will admit just this once that he is taken by surprise. "Anelle is dead?"

"This was the state of her body when it was found."

"It was pretty clean," Sherlock notes. "A single gunshot to the head took her out."

Mycroft folds his hands together and nods slowly. "Do you recall the last time you spoke to your daughter, Sherlock?"

"The phone rang at 7:25 on a Saturday evening given the one hour time difference between London and Pretoria, she was calling just before her bedtime. Her voice sounded a little nasally, perhaps she had a cold. I let the phone ring twice, picked it up and said, 'Now who do I know from South Africa?' She laughed, she greeted me, and we talked. She was getting her braces removed in the morning. Her step-father demanded that she get off the phone and go to bed, she protested, but he yelled something to her in Afrikaans and she said, 'Love you Daddy' and hung up. The call lasted twenty-three minutes and fifty-one seconds."

Mycroft ignores his brother's show-off display and continues speaking. "That was the last time you spoke to her."

"Yes."

"You never wondered?"

Of course he wondered. He may be Sherlock Holmes, but he's Amelia's father all the same. He worried occasionally, thought about her often, and missed her every now and then.

"Sherlock, do you know why that phone call was the last?"

"No, but I imagine that you're about to tell me."

"Do you recall our Amelia talking about her stepfather? You do remember the things she said, yes?"

"Of course I do," he sighed. "She hated the bastard."

"Amelia was right to hate him, she had many good, Sherlock. Perhaps she will tell you when she next sees you. The man was served with divorce papers a little under two years ago. Since the divorce, he relentlessly stalked Amelia and her mother. Just under a year ago, Anelle quit her job at the law practice and they relocated from Pretoria to Pietermaritzburg. Eventually, he found them and-"

"Did you drag me here just to tell me that my daughter was murdered by her stepfather, Mycroft? Even for you that is low. That is _sick, _Mycroft. _Sick._"

"I didn't bring you here to lie to you, Sherlock. Coincidentally, Amy stayed late at school that day for archery team practice and is alive and well. Her mother only died two months ago, so reasonably, she is still in grieving, but she is doing well. Your Amy is a strong young woman."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and corrects his brother. Two months seems to him like an awful long time to be sad about something. "Amelia. My _Amelia_. That's her name."

"Technically her name is Rachel," Mycroft points out for the sole purpose of annoying his brother.

His voice rose slightly. "Why am I just now hearing about her situation?"

"The fact that she holds dual citizenship doesn't mean that getting her to this part of the world is a simple task. There are loopholes, papers, plane tickets, relatives on the Ten Eyck side, her stepfather's murder trial, Anelle's funeral, et cetera. Anelle has living siblings in South Africa with whom your daughter has been living these past two months. I was…in that part of the world around the time of the funeral."

The younger brother glanced at the elder sideward. "You visited with her. For how long?"

"I had only a few hours before I had to be on a plane to Armenia, but it was enough time to buy her lunch and get a clear update. It would seem that she isn't too fond of her mother's family. She begged me to take her back to England right then, but I thought it would be best for her to begin the grieving process with people who would grieve with her."

"You knew about this all along and you didn't think to tell me? Mycroft, I could have phoned her if I'd known."

"You could have phoned her many other times, Sherlock, but you didn't. Anyway, I relayed that you…sent your love and condolences before I left. "

Ignoring the last comment, Sherlock leans forward. "You said something about getting her to this part of the world."

"I did."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his brother. "She is coming to London."

Mycroft rolls his eyes once and nods. "When one parent dies, the child usually lives with the living parent. If you don't have the space for her I'm more than happy to help; she still has her room here."

"She hasn't been to London since she was eleven."

"Twelve," Mycroft corrects. "It was her end of school year holiday, the one she was supposed to spend with you. You were in rehab, remember Sherlock? Anelle sent her on the plane anyway to visit with the rest of the family."

'Rest of the family' being Mycroft and their mother. Oh, they have living aunts and uncles and cousins, but neither of the Holmes brothers minded them much. Sherlock swears under his breath and leans back into the armchair. "When should I expect her?"

"I'm collecting her from Heathrow tomorrow evening. Will you be ready for her? You still have another room now that Dr. Watson's moved in, do you not?"

"Mrs. Hudson will want to charge more rent, but it's available. Tomorrow evening is quite sudden."

"It is. I'm willing to pay the difference, but if you'd prefer to have an extra day I can keep her here for the night," Mycroft offers: Amelia's Favorite Uncle reporting for duty. The smile on his face reads 'I've spent more time and money on your daughter than you have, brother.' Sherlock knows that Amelia loves him (most of the time) but occasionally wishes that the Holmes' relations to her were reversed. To be honest, it makes him jealous.

The urge to say something cutting is strong, but he knows Mycroft's true reasons for devoting so much of his time to his niece. Although bickering with Mycroft gives him much joy, there is one subject that Sherlock refuses to make jokes about. Instead of delivering a clever quip, he settles on drawling, "I can come up with the funds to support my daughter without the help of the British government. And by all means, bring her over tomorrow. John will find this news interesting."

**:-:**

Indeed, John does.

Sherlock arrives back at 221B shortly after the sun had set and immediately goes to his violin. He thinks over the conversation with his brother while he plays Bach's 'The Chaconne.'

The last time he saw his daughter, she was on her three-week break of her second term of South Africa's four-term system. She spent eighteen days in London with her father before flying back to her home in Pretoria. He might be almost completely devoid of human emotion, but he cared about Amelia- he just doesn't have much of a way of showing it. Her flight will be eleven hours nonstop, and with typical evening traffic Mycroft would have her at Baker Street by six. Maybe he'll stop by Angelo's so there will be some sort of supper at the flat for her- she'll need something decent after the airline food. If in fact he remembers.

When they last met, Sherlock was still shooting up with heroin and Amelia was a blue-eyed curly-haired preteen. Four years later, Sherlock is clean (but far less pleasant) and there are all sorts of possibilities for how Amelia has turned out.

Halfway through the approximately quarter hour piece, Sherlock freezes as a thought pops into his head. _Is _there an extra room? He isn't losing it, is he?

"John!"

"Yes, what is it?" John yawns, walking into the room.

"The room upstairs, across from yours. It's not a figment of my imagination, is it?"

"No, why?"

Sherlock grins and quietly plays a short series of notes. "Just checking."

"What for?"

"Mycroft has informed me that my daughter is moving in tomorrow. He's is flying her in all the way from another continent."

John scrunches his face in confusion and stares at his flatmate. "I'm sorry, _daughter_? I didn't know you had a-"

"Not many people do," says the detective. "I don't talk about her much, do I?"

"Never."

"I suppose she's my most close guarded secret, though I'm not sure why. The reason I don't mention her, I imagine, is that she's irrelevant to my day-to-day life. There is no need to talk about my teenage daughter at a crime scene or at the morgue. Now you know," he plays a longer series of notes and smiles to himself. "You won't mind being across the hall from her, I'm sure. She's nearly sixteen but I doubt she's very…_teenagerlike. _I hate teenagers; hard to be believe that I was ever one."

"You've never once mentioned her."

Sherlock shrugged and plucked the strings. "The subject never came up and was never relevant."

Still shocked at this new revelation, John shakes his head and insists that it won't be a problem. "I'm sorry but you said 'another continent?' You, um, reproduced with a…Australian? Sherlock don't tell me it was an American."

"Neither, John. It was a drunken one-night stand with a law student from Johannesburg."

"Funny," John smirks. "Sherlock Holmes was a horny young man once."

"Piss off, John," Sherlock laughs, setting down his violin. "Don't worry about tidying up the flat. _Mycroft _is bringing her by. He adores the girl and will no doubt stick around a while."

"Shouldn't I tidy up a little for- uh…you never mentioned her name."

Sherlock quietly plays while he answers. "Amelia. My brother has taken to calling her Amy, but her name is Amelia, John."

"Not a fan of nicknames I take it?"

"No, I just hate Amy," he answered. He has nicknames for her, he has plenty. Amy just makes him want to cringe. "Tidy up if you wish but I'm not concerned about it."

John, understandably, is still utterly shocked at the idea of his flatmate having a child. "Why so sudden?"

"Apparently," Sherlock drawls. "Her mother has been murdered and I'm only just now hearing about it."

Thinking about what the girl must be going through makes the doctor frown. Thinking about how Sherlock is makes him a tad bit sad. His flatmate, while a brilliant man, will be rubbish at this 'being a dad' thing when it comes to managing the girl's grief. A self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock Holmes isn't one for emotion, for feelings, for _sentiment._ John doesn't hesitate to voice the concern to his friend:

"I'm sorry about that, for your daughter's sake."

"You think, quite correctly, that I won't be of any use to her in dealing with Anelle's death," deduces the detective. "And I must say that I agree, but there is not a thing I can do about this arrangement other than tell Mycroft that he can keep her with him and-"

"And you'd rather shoot yourself than let Mycroft raise your daughter," John chuckles.

"Exactly, John. I realize that I'm going to be far from beneficial to her grief, but that is what you're for," Sherlock grins cheekily and walks away playing the eighth movement of Shostakovich's The Gadfly.

John sighs, knowing that everything else he was going to say is pointless.


	2. Twee: Amelia Holmes

A/N: _Thank you_ to AllThatIWant, JGHB, LadyCrow1313, starkissedtulip, purplepacker, little ninja of awesome, and migotka21 for alerting and/or reviewing and/or favoriting!

This chapter jumps from scene to scene because it's still largely introductory.

I want to be a linguist. Human language interests me to no end. While I find English rather tedious compared to other languages, I'm very interested in the different dialects. As an American born and raised in the south, I'm familiar with many dialects of American English, and I've researched British English (in an attempt to further keep the characters in-character) and South African English (to build Amelia as a character.) I'll be slipping South African English slang, some lexical differences, and throwing in occasional phrases of Afrikaans. Most South Africans are _at least bilingual _and some are trilingual. Most white South Africans (like Amelia) are fluent in English and Afrikaans.

Occasionally, some German phrases, too. The reason will be explained in the A/N at the end of the chapter. I figure with Mycroft's job he'd have to speak several languages, so German is one of them.

Used in this chapter:

-Blerrie (SA, slang); damn, bloody

-Lekker (SA, slang); nice, good, great, tasty- this word is very versatile

-Cool drink (SA); soda, pop, soft drink, fizzy drink

-nicht wahr? (German); isn't it?

-Seien ruhig! (German); shut up

* * *

"Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

― George R.R. Martin, _A Game of Thrones_

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Twee: Amelia Holmes**

* * *

Amelia bites her inner cheek and stares hard at the piece of paper resting on the pull-down tray. Pen in her left hand, her eyes jump from one signature to the next trying to find one that fits her aesthetic fancy. Half-cynically she thinks to herself: _New country, new life, new signature. _Since she learned cursive, her signature had been 'Amelia Ten Eyck.' To some, the idea of changing one's signature because of a move is stupid, but to her, it is necessary. Amelia Ten Eyck brings with her memories, experiences, and demons that quite frankly, want to be left behind in Africa. This move to Europe is a chance for a fresh start.

"Amelia Holmes."

The words feel foreign as they roll off her tongue in the faltering whisper that they do. Amelia bites her lip and repeats the name with more confidence. She turns to the seat next to her, empty because the man's little toddler had to go potty, smiles, and shakes an imaginary hand.

"Pleased to meet you," she says as if talking to something other than the air. "I'm Amelia Holmes."

_Yeah, _the girl, prideful, grins at her reflection in the metal bolts of the airline seat just as the seatbelt light comes on. _I like the way that sounds. _The thought that maybe using her father's surname would make him happy fleetingly crosses her mind just as the man and his son return.

Shortly after, the eleven hour plane ride comes to an end. Amelia shakes with nerves and adrenaline while she waits for the door to open to the hangar and doesn't stop shaking even after she's gathered her bags. By some way of black magic, she manages to move her carry-on as wel as her other three bags to a bench near the door. Still shaking, she reaches into the pocket of her shorts and pulls out the shiny new cell phone to send a text to her uncle:

_Found my bags, Mycroft. ETA? - Amy _

Her uncle is a busy man. He'll deny it, but he's one of the key players in the behind-the-scenes government of the United Kingdom and possibly (Amelia's convinced) the world. When he told her that he was arriving- alone- to collect her from Heathrow, she was certain that he would get one of his employees to do it. Half-expecting him to text back something like, 'Sorry Amy dear, but work…' she wears a frown when her phone chimes.

_Turn around. –MH_

Amelia whirls her head around and scans the area for her umbrella-wielding uncle. She's convinced that there is something sinister about her dear uncle's umbrella, she's just not sure what and too afraid to ask. Her hunt for her uncle doesn't take much longer, and when she finds him, the fact that the airport is a public place matters not when she leaps up and jumps into his open arms.

"Uncle Mycroft!"

Mycroft smiles a genuinely warm smile and embraces his niece. Sentiment is something that he had sworn off long ago, but Amelia is possibly the only exception. "Amelia, dear. It is great to finally have you in this part of the world."

She can't help but to smile wider. "I wish I could have come sooner. Mom's family…we don't get on."

"I know," Mycroft says apologetically. "Where are your bags?"

"Over here," Amelia gestures to the bench.

He was expecting her to have brought an abundance of luggage, but is surprised to see only four. Playfully, he teases his niece, "What kind of girl are you? Did you enjoy your flight?"

"One who is a master packer. Feel how heavy they are, I grabbed the biggest suitcases I could find. We had a little turbulence when we flew over Turkey, and I forgot my blerrie sweater on the plane, but the man sitting next to me bought a cool drink for me because I was, quote, 'in need of some liquor, but underage, so a cool drink would have to do.'" She kneels down to pick up one of the suitcases. "The idiot who booked my flight seated me in first class instead of economy."

"Oh no, I purchased a first class ticket?" Mycroft winks and takes hold of the other two suitcases. "How foolish of me."

"This whole favourite-niece thing will never get old," she says as they exit the airport. "You didn't have to buy such a nice phone, though. I hate feeling like I'm taking advantage of your money."

Mycroft never ceases to find ways to outdo himself. Unlike in other countries, South African schools all require fees to attend. Since Amelia's schooling began, she has been enrolled in private schools that her mother could never afford without someone's help. From Kindergarten onward, she was a student at Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria, and during her stint in hiding, studied at British School of Pietermaritzburg. Even with Anelle's lawyer income, there wasn't money for schools like that. Amelia's forever unemployed alcoholic stepfather and six step-siblings didn't make the financial situation any easier. Though Mycroft will never tell her that she does, Amelia's feels that she owes so much to him; because of him, she had the opportunity to study at a German school and grow up trilingual.

Apart from his monetary blessings, he has looked out for Amelia as if she were his own daughter. When she saw him standing apart from the crowd at her mother's funeral, she couldn't help but smile through the anger and the pain for a short moment. After the funeral, he bought lunch for her at her favourite restaurant and informed her that he was already working on getting her to London. He has never once forgotten his niece's birthday and always calls at exactly 5:18 in the morning (the time she was born) to wish happy birthday.

Amelia doesn't understand why her uncle invests so much of his money, time, and energy in her. No matter what the reason, she's grateful. Without him, she wouldn't have had most of the opportunities she's had.

"Thanks," Amelia adds. "For everything."

Mycroft gives one of those 'don't be silly' laughs and shakes his head. "You've never asked for anything, so it's hardly taking advantage. You're a bright girl, Amelia. My monetary gifts are rewards and encouragement. Besides, when rich uncles don't have children, they tend to spoil their nieces."

Amelia chuckles and loads her bags into the car. There's a driver in the front seat, as she predicted. "So…be smart and Wealthy Uncle Mycroft will buy things for you? The logical flow of that is so basic that it works. I knew there was a reason that you're my favourite."

"Don't tell your father that."

Cue the eye rolling. "Sibling rivalry still going on is it? Hopefully you two can get along for ten minutes today."

**:-:**

Sherlock Holmes and housework don't mesh well, which is exactly why John took it upon himself to prepare the flat for Amelia's arrival. He hid the experiments, made the living area less cluttered, and double-checked the other bedroom for insects. The room across from his was rather dull for what he imagined the preferences of a teenager were, but that could be taken care of later. For now he runs through his checklist: bed made, check, vacuumed, check, extra blankets and pillows, check and check.

Earlier in the morning, when John asked his flatmate what his daughter was like, he simply reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a photograph, obviously a yearbook photo judging by her attire. _It's a year old, _Sherlock explained. _Mycroft said that she still looks about the same, she just grew taller. _If the photograph is still accurate, then Amelia is a blue-eyed girl with wavy brown hair and similar facial characteristics to Sherlock except for the nose.

John looked at the photograph and smiled to his friend. "She's a cute girl."

"Yes, I suppose she hit the genetic jackpot."

"Narcissistic prat," John murmured before he carried on with the cleaning.

John is intrigued about the girl, he won't deny it. His knowledge of the Holmes brothers leads him to be entirely blank on how they would function with a child in their lives. The idea of Sherlock holding an infant in his arms is bizarre, and even more bizarre is the idea of him doing those things that fathers do- bedtime stories, telling her children he loves her, being suckered into playing dress up. None of those activities sound like something Sherlock Holmes would do.

A knock on the door pulls John from his curious thoughts.

"That would be Mycroft," Sherlock says when the door opens after a knock. "Joy."

**:-:**

Amelia stares out the window, not looking at anything in particular. This is still so surreal to her. Her mother is dead, she is in London, she'll be living with her dad- finally. Amelia fights the tears that form in her eyes and takes a deep breath. _Now isn't a time to mourn, _she scolds herself. When Anelle died, Amelia wept for three days straight and since, she's had ample time to cry and wallow in her grief and self-pity. There will be more time for grieving, more days, but today isn't one of those days.

Today is a happy day- at least, that is what Amelia has been telling herself. _I get to see Daddy again. _She supposes that she's too old to call him that anymore, and to his face he'll be dad, but in her eyes, Sherlock Holmes will always be Daddy. Even _if _Daddy likes heroin, and can't tell her that he loves her. Mycroft says that his brother is clean, and has been for quite some time, but Amelia Holmes isn't one to take people's words for anything.

She'll decide for herself.

But she knows that her dad loves her, he's merely unconventional in his ways of showing it.

Sitting across the backseat from her tapping away on his phone is her uncle. Amelia glances over at the texting man and frowns. "You only text when you can't talk, Uncle Mycroft. If it's important, then please, don't worry about calling them because I won't be mad."

"Nonsense," Mycroft looks up from his phone and smiles at the teenager. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze and ignores the text he receives next. "You only move to London once, and that is much more important than work, _nicht wahr_, Amy dear?"

Amelia leans her head on his shoulder and rests her sleepy eyes. "Ach, seien ruhig! You're getting sentimental Uncle Mycroft, you always say that sentiment is pointless."

"In most cases, it is." He ignores another text and allows her to rest on his shoulder. "We're on his street by the way," Mycroft drones, effectively rousing the tired girl.

Amelia scrambles to gather herself. "I'm up!"

"Wow, looks like a decent flat," Amelia comments as Mycroft knocks and opens the door.

A male voice from inside says something that Amelia misses to which Mycroft replies, "You are a pleasure as always, little brother."

_Little brother. _Amelia pushes through her nerves and follows her uncle inside. "Children you two are," she pipes up in an attempt to calm down. "Try getting along, you might like-"

In mid-sentence, she freezes and stares ahead in amazement. Standing before her is a man she hasn't seen since she was eleven, her father, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock glances at John just when Amelia, wavy brown hair flying behind her, throws her arms around the detective in a hug. A typical father would have smiled and hugged his daughter back, but Sherlock just stands there not looking very amused. His face relays the message that his words don't: _Human contact, make it stop._

"Dad you look..." Amelia thinks back to the last time she saw him: thinner with ever-present stubble, disheveled, addicted to heroin, and living in a far shabbier flat. Rehab go number three must have worked wonders. The few times that she ever prayed, it was for his addiction. "You look great. I missed you."

Sherlock remains rigid while his daughter hugs him as if she never will again. He knows that he is supposed to hug her back, but he doesn't even with Mycroft half-glaring. All he wants is for her to stop touching him. He abhors human contact of every sort. Amelia is disappointed when her father doesn't return her hug. The Holmes brothers aren't much for physical contact or affection, but at least the elder brother welcomed her with open arms and loving words. Still, in spite of Sherlock's indifference, Amelia is ecstatic to be here and see him. When she finally pulls out of the awkward embrace, she's still smiling.

Sherlock manages to offer a smile with one corner of his mouth while keeping the other pokerface. "You grew taller."

"Four years and a spinal fusion work wonders on a girl's height. I grew three inches just because of the scoliosis surgery," she explains before offering a hand to John. "You must be my dad's flatmate. Uncle Mycroft mentioned you."

"John," the former soldier introduces himself, shaking her hand and ignoring all of the medical thoughts that began running through his head upon her mention of 'spinal fusion' and 'scoliosis.'

"Rachel," she says. "Legally. But please, call me Amelia."

Sherlock tries his best to ignore his brother's death glares, but, he decides, they won't stop until he says something else to Amelia. The consulting detective examines his daughter to see what he can deduce about her- deductions usually lead to conversation. While he works on a deduction, Mycroft places a hand on Amelia's shoulder and says something to her in…_German? _and Amelia nods, understands, and responds similarly.

"Ja, ich werde sein."

"You are positive?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. Thanks for escaping work to come to the airport- didn't think you'd actually do it," she playfully teases. She hugs her uncle and kisses his cheek. "I'll see you soon, right?"

Sherlock grimaces. He's not sure if he will ever get used to the idea of his daughter adoring Mycroft the way she does. Frankly, he doesn't see what makes him so endearing and finds him quite repellent and glares while he says his goodbyes to Amelia. He mutters some insult at him while he walks away; John looks amused.

Sherlock continues deducing things about Amelia until, finally, he feels that he has enough to go on. "You sat next to someone with a small child on the aeroplane. You played with the child and let them draw on your hand. Did you injure your wrist recently? The bottom portion of your right arm is paler than the rest-"

He only gets this far before Amelia's arms are around him again. "I missed that, Dad." she laughs lamely. "I really missed you…did you miss me?"

"Yes," he answers honestly. "You're my daughter, of course I missed you. Your uncle still speaks German to you, I see."

"Yes," Amelia says. "You still speak it, right?"

Sherlock shrugs. "He told you that he had to, regrettably, return to work and asked you if you would be okay here with me. I can, I'd just rather not. You and my brother are such show-offs."

The girl laughs and playfully punches his shoulder. "You're one to talk, Daddy! Ah, I mean, Dad. You and your deduction black magic."

John smiles at the pair and decides to sneak out of the room to give them space- after he asks a question. "Amelia, do you want me move your things to your room?"

Her jaw drops and eyes light up in happy surprise. "I have a room?"

"Upstairs," John answers.

"Lekker! I've never had my own room before," Amelia, blissfully unaware that the doctor doesn't know what 'lekker' means, exclaims. "Five step-siblings. Here, I'll help take the stuff up. And is there anything to eat? I didn't dare try the airline food."

"We have leftover Italian takeout," Sherlock offers.

"That counts."

_Yes Sherlock, she's your daughter all right, _John thought with a smile as he moved some suitcases upstairs.

* * *

If somebody could briefly explain to me the school system in the UK that would be great- like, GCSE's and A-levels. I've been researching it, but if someone could give me a very basic explanation that would be great.

Regarding the multilingual abilities of the characters-

Sherlock: I imagine that he'd speak several languages. I've seen several fanfics here and on AO3 about it, so I like to imagine that he speaks French, German, British Sign Language, Russian, Latin, some knowledge of ancient Greek, and base knowledge of Spanish and Arabic. He wanted to learn every language Mycroft knows and them some to prove he's cleverer, but Sherlock doesn't know about some of Mycroft's languages...and frankly, some of them are useless to him anyway. I get really carried away with my headcanons. Like, REALLY carried away.

Mycroft: Besides English, I imagine he's fluent in German (very common second language amongst Europeans), French, Russian, Pashto (spoken in Afghanistan, some parts of Pakistan), Arabic, and for some unknown reason, Turkish with some ability to comprehend Spanish and a base knowledge of Mandarin Chinese. He also learned Latin in school. Being the British Government and genius. Joy.

Amelia: I did my research on Pretoria, her home city. There are 11 official languages in South Africa and the most commonly used amongst white South Africans are English and Afrikaans, and some neighborhoods in Pretoria are very heavily populated by Afrikaans speakers. Mycroft, wanting his niece to have the ability to go as far as she possibly can in the world, made sure that she attended a German International school where classes we taught bilingually. There, she learned English and German, and in her day-to-day life, she learned Afrikaans as it was spoken in the home and around her neighborhood. Also, Afrikaans is taught as a first additional language and she studied it there for a few years before switching to French, which she has _basic _comprehension of and will continue to study in England. Mycroft, wanting Amelia to never lose her fluency in German, usually speaks to her in German or at the very least slips in phrases. I modeled Amelia's school in Pretoria after information I found on the website for German International School Cape Town. When I write, I'll keep it in English with occasional German phrases- like here. Her grandparents and mother and mother's siblings are all fluent in Dutch. Afrikaans is similar to Dutch, so Amelia can understand it but not speak it.


	3. Drie: Lifestyle Adjustment

This is still a few weeks before the episode The Great Game. Well, more like 5-9 weeks.

Meow.

Amelia's outburst of anger might seem sudden, but she's still grieving the death of her mother, she's stressed, aaaand Sherlock's being an arse. She's in the anger stage of grief and it happens to explode on Sherlock. Her stepdad's name is Gabriel, but the Afrikaans version. From internet research, it's something like Gabriel but with an umlaut over the ie and it is g(phlemmy sound)H aa-bree-el.

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Drie: Lifestyle Adjustment**

* * *

_I feel again that terrible itching_

_Cutting my bones cutting my soul_

_You're pushing my veins_

_You're drawing a picture of my blood_

…

_Read my story_

_Its written on my body_

_~ GJan "Tattoo"_

* * *

These past three days have been a roller coaster. After that first night Amelia thought that things would go smoothly with her and her dad but was quickly proved wrong first thing in the morning. The relationship between father and daughter is tumultuous at best.

Still, Amelia tries to remain optimistic. She likes Dr. John. She truly, truly likes him. He's nice, funny, and a doctor. Amelia always has wanted to be a doctor and thinks it's just pretty damn fantastic that she gets to live with one.

"Day three of living with Dad and John is a go!" Amelia says excitedly once she slips out of bed.

Across the hall, reading a book in his room, John hears this and smiles to himself. _It's about time she got up._ She's been awake for at least two hours, lazing about. He heard her tossing and turning and begging her brain to go back to sleep before she eventually gave up.

"John?" Amelia calls across the hall. Only three days in to living at Baker Street and she's already comfortable with shouting back and forth with the army doctor from their respective bedrooms.

The springs of his mattress squeak as he gets up and walks to the open door. "Yes?"

"You don't have a problem with ABBA, do you?"

"No…" _ABBA is one of my favorites._

"Good," she cheers with a wide grin. "It's been three days; it's time for me to organize my room to my liking. I have to play music when I do chores or else it just won't ever get done. I'm in an ABBA mood. Carry on, John- hey that rhymed!"

He retreats back into his bedroom, laughing, and keeps the door open. _She was serious about the ABBA thing, _he notes when he recognizes S.O.S playing. As the playlist goes on, John find himself mouthing the lyrics to Voulez-Vous and it takes all of his willpower to not contribute to Waterloo. He can't help but to smile when he hears her singing along to the choruses not because she's a good singer, (she's singing too quietly for him to gauge her talent or lack thereof), but because in this moment, she is the complete antithesis of the other members of the Holmes family.

John tries to imagine Sherlock or Mycroft singing and dancing along to ABBA while doing housework. Unfortunately, Dancing Queen is playing during this process and the mental image is one that he quickly tries to forget.

**:-:**

Sherlock wasn't expecting Amelia's presence to be made evident throughout the flat this quickly. Her personal items are strewn throughout the place: shampoo and conditioner in the shower, acne cream on the bathroom counter, various hair products in the medicine cabinet, feminine items under the sink, her clothes in the hamper, _her_ _books _in the living room, her- really the list goes on and on. He can't help but to feel like he is being invaded by an alien race. He won't go as far as to say that he hates her, but his life is certainly not easy with her.

Amelia disapproves of his "my body is transport" lifestyle and has, on two separate occasions, sat next to him with a plate of home-cooked food and made him eat it. Amelia, he will admit, is very talented when it comes to the kitchen. Okay, so maybe eating his daughter's meals isn't _that _bad. She tolerate his experiments but never fails to comment:

'Daaad, thumbs!'

'Where are there eyes in the microwave?'

'It is even sanitary to keep food in here?'

'I don't even want to know.'

'I'm just going to ask John, then…'

'I can't believe that's a tongue. I might vomit.'

He doesn't remember her childhood visits being so...unpleasant. It doesn't help that John is pushing him to bond with his daughter. _Come on, Sherlock! Just say something else to her besides 'good morning' or 'Rachel Amelia, your bra is on the shower rod.' Go for a walk, take her…I don't know, go clothes shopping! _The good doctor means well, and the younger man knows this, but he just doesn't understand.

All he wants is a case. A good, _exciting,_ dangerous case is just what he needs.

Out of boredom, he begins to set small fires in the kitchen with chemicals. Blue flames, purple flames, the typical reds, yellows, and oranges. Pyromaniac? No, never, but fire is very entertaining. He is so transfixed of the flames that he doesn't notice the other person enter the room until they speak.

"I could have used you a week ago."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, your degree is in chemistry, isn't it? I was failing chemistry…well I had below and ninety which is the same as failing. It's probably a blerrie good thing I left the country before it ended up being on my record."

"A ninety is hardly failing. There is no need to be an anal perfectionist. Honestly Amelia, I thought you were better than that."

Amelia grinds her teeth. "You thought wrong."

"Clearly. Speaking of school," Sherlock drones, his boredom seeping through his tone. "When do you plan on that happening?"

"South Africa operates on an entirely different schedule than the UK. It's still the first half of the school year over there but the second third here. Uncle Mycroft-"

Disgusted sigh. "Must you speak the devil's name?"

Glare. "-is working it out."

Sherlock rolls his eyes rather childishly and puts out the fire. "By 'working it out' you mean talking to heads of posh schools about letting you in mid-year with nothing but a for-formality-only placement test to prove your ability."

A very Holmesian expression reading 'I'm-bloody-brilliant-and-I-know-it' creeps onto her face. "Of course I do."

"What school is he looking into?"

Amelia shrugs. "Don't know, don't care. There's a German school in the London area, but I told him that I wanted to go to a British school."

"You didn't like your school? You always told me that you loved it."

"I did. But, I live in London. May as well _assimilate_." She utters the last word like it is a curse.

"If that's what you want."

Amelia is taken aback. In fact, she's properly offended that he is basically encouraging her to assimilate instead of telling her to be proud to come from where does. She bites her nails while she tries to come up with more words. It has been four years since she saw her father, and over a year since she had spoken to him. She hates that he is being so distant, so cold, so…unlike the dad she remembers. Since her arrival she's been trying to convince herself that her father cares. It's only been three days, but she already feels like giving up on that dream.

In a final attempt at good conversation: "Dad, do you still play the violin?"

"That's a stupid question, why are you asking stupid questions?"

She blushes, embarrassed, but also a little hurt. "I, um. I really enjoy violins and I'm glad that you still play. You taught me, so…I really hoped."

"Hm. Now is there any specific reason you took a break from cleaning your room to talk to me? Or are you just making pointless small talk?"

Anger begins to bubble inside her chest while she glares daggers- no, machine guns- at him. Sherlock frowns and says, "Why are you looking at me like that? Can't you use your words?"

Screw politeness, forget ladylike behavior, and to hell with respect your elders. In true Holmes Speed Talking fashion, Amelia says exactly what is on her mind. "You could at least try to make this relationship work, Dad! You're acting a total arse. Mycroft warned me that you'd thrown all sentiment and emotion out the window, but I thought that being your kid would count for something and I guess I was wrong. Is it too much to ask that you try to be nice once in a while? God, three days and I already can't stand you! To think that I was _so damn excited _to come live with you. To think, yeah? You must have been lying the day I got here when you said you missed me. It's obvious you were much better off without me here. Three days and I've already been called stupid, bothersome, and annoying. You very loudly shouted that my bra was on the shower rod and that really embarrassed me. What am I doing wrong? I'm trying to be as well-behaved and respectful as possible but you're making it pretty damn hard. You haven't once asked me how I'm holding up. My mother was just _murdered_, Dad. Murdered by somebody who put me through a whole childhood of hellish things, some of which you've never heard about because I know that you don't care, but I _want _you to! I want you to care so I can tell you. Dad, I…have always been proud to have you as my father. But as of now, you're no better than my stepdad was. Sherlock and Gabriël are one and the same."

Sherlock can handle every insult, every ounce of anger, every bit of hatred thrown at him. Nothing that his daughter said hurts him. Nothing she says even angers him except for _one _thing. "Amelia Holmes! Don't you dare compare me to Gabriël Prinsloo!"

"Why not? You're just like him. Rude, hateful, acts like I'm dirt. And Amelia _Holmes_? You're funny. You know, I'd threaten to go move in with Mycroft, but I know you won't be hurt, so why bother?"

Without another word, Amelia leaves the kitchen and runs upstairs. Sherlock kicks the leg of the table, grabs his coat, and storms out the door.

Air.

Space.

Now.

Once he is a decent distance from 221B, he sends John a text.

**:-:**

Amelia can only remember crying this hard once before. It felt horrible then; it feels just as horrible now. In her fit of tears and self-pity she falls prey to stereotypical teenage behavior when she shouts that 'it's not fair!' To give her claim some sort of backup, she is at a rather low point in her life.

Fifteen, living with her self-diagnosed sociopathic father, mother murdered by abusive ex-husband. _Yeah, _Amelia thinks cynically. _Low point all right. _The mere thought of Gabriël Prinsloo makes her want to cry an entirely new round of shameless tears. Nearly every memory of her childhood is tainted by that monstrosity. He isn't worth being called a man. Gabriël and his daughter made Amelia's life hell from the day her mother said 'I do.' His sons weren't bad. No, not at all, they grew quite close to their stepsister. Amelia misses them more than anything, even her mom. Anelle and her daughter were close. Once. Shortly after Anelle met her future killer, the relationship between mother and daughter dwindled. Before her death it improved a little, but Amelia regrets that it didn't get just a _little better._ Now she's gone. Forever. Six feet under. In the dirt. Nothing but bones and rotting flesh. All because of him.

Emotions; how trivial. Amelia hates them, she absolutely detests them. Often she wishes that she could just build walls so high that nobody could climb them be it to a positive effect or negative. If only she could make like the Holmes brothers and lock them away in a little box, never to be trifled with again. _Pandora's Box. _She knows the legend of Pandora's Box by heart. Remembering the story makes her imagine all of her locked of emotions spilling out at once- how disastrous!

Her sobs only grow in volume as time goes on, and there is ample profanity thrown in there. Most of which is directed at Gabriël Prinsloo. The bastard. The scum. The devil incarnate. Some of which directed at Anelle Ten Eyck. The foolish, naïve woman. Blinded by love for her husband. Stupid. Dead. Abandoner. _Abandoner. _The least of which, directed at Sherlock Holmes. Daddy. Dad. Whatever. Child-hated, wannabe sociopath, liar. Druggie, _damned genius _druggie. Genius.

Maybe, if he wasn't too busy shooting up heroin, she could have come to live in England sooner. So what if her eccentric father does experiments with human body parts? He never once hit her. Never once reminded her of the gun in his drawer to enforce obedience. Never once called her disparaging names. Never once caused her a broken bone. Never once asked her to drop her towel and turn around. Never once snaked his way into her bedroom when he thought she was asleep and-

"Son of a bitch, why? What did I ever do! You took _everything _from me! My life, my sense of security, my mom, my friends, my national identity, my home, my-" She can't continue. She lets the tears fall because holding anything back will only make it worse.

A figure walks through her open doorway and pauses at the door.

"Dad, what the hell do you want, what could you possibly want?"

"I-I'm not Sherlock."

With her red, teary eyes and blotchy face, Amelia jolts up into a sitting position. "John. I'm disturbing you."

"No, you aren't-"

Amelia sobs even harder and hides her face with her hands. "Would it be presumptuous to assume that you heard me shouting at…at my dad."

Not answering the question, John replies with a casual comment. "Presumptuous, nice word."

In spite of everything else within her, she laughs for just a second in between sobs. John is silent while Amelia continues to sob and he stands by the door for a good five minutes. Patience, a skill learned from years in the British Army, is something that Dr. John Watson has never been short on. Within five minutes, Amelia's sobs die down enough to where he deems it safe to approach her.

"Hey," he says soothingly as he sits down next to her. The last thing that he wanted to do was become involved with his flatmate's daughter before he himself had a chance to bond with her. But one cannot expect a doctor with a soft spot for children sit idle while there is a young girl in need of comforting. "If you need to talk. Or if you need a hug. I'm right across the hall, kid."

"You're being nice. Why?"

"There's no ulterior motive."

"You have no obligation to me."

"All the more reason for there to be no hidden motive, don't you think?"

Amelia frowns and allows more tears to slide down her cheeks. "I suppose so."

The good doctor smiles and looks the girl in the eye. "Do you want to tell me what's got you all…sad? I know it's not your father's arsehole-ish behaviour."

"How do you know?"

"For one, admit it, you're in the anger stage of grief. Sherlock's arselike personality set you off, but that's not why you're crying. You were shouting, shouting things that couldn't be about Sherlock."

"You h-h-heard all of that?"

"Door was wide open, Ames."

Though his use of a nickname makes her want to smiles, she ignores it. "My mom is dead."

"I know."

"Saying it like that sounds harsh, I know, but it's the truth. My stepdad killed her while I was at the archery practice I was originally going to skip. Funny how a snap decision to stay afterschool saved my life. You know- well, of course you don't- but, my mom was supposed to pick me up after archery that day. Before she was about to leave the house, I texted her and told her that I was going to go to lunch with some of my teammates. I _texted _her, John. I _texted _her. I didn't get to hear her voice just one more time. I didn't even tell her that I loved her before she died. My mom, do you think she knew?"

"That you love her?"

Amelia nods and looks down in shame. "Yes."

"No," John says quickly. "I don't think she knew. I know she knew."

"How do you know, though? We weren't that close anymore, my stepdad drove such a huge, huge wedge. How?"

"Parents just know those things. I also know that she loved you more than anything. Mothers usually love their daughters an awful lot, don't they? Even when it doesn't seem like it."

"Yes, they do."

"Sherlock loves you, too."

"Bullshit," Amelia snaps through her teeth.

"He does," John counters. "He just has a very different way of showing it."

"Meaning no way at all?"

"Exactly," John concedes. "Exactly."

"So what, I just keep taking his crap and acting like I'm fine with it? 'Oh yeah, everything just dandy!'"

"He'll warm up to the whole dad thing," John promises. "Eventually."

"And if he doesn't?"

John ponders this a moment. "He will."

"But if he doesn't?"

"Mycroft sure seems to adore you," John laughs.

Amelia joins him in his laughter and wipes the last bit of tears from her eyes. "He wouldn't object to me moving in with him. In fact, I think my uncle would prefer it. But I want to give my dad…a second chance of sorts. A second chance for the past few years. You know he used to do like, a lot of drugs."

John nods, says nothing.

"My stepdad talked my mom into not sending me to England on holidays even after he got clean. Gosh, John! Why do even call him my stepdad? I hate the blerrie cockroach."

"It's what you've been conditioned to do in public," he says. "Right?"

"Yes. It's my dad's fault for doing drugs in the first place, but I understand how getting addicted gets. You lose control. My mom is gone. Her family in SA hates me, but were willing to take me in. I wanted to come here and live with my dad."

"You were expecting the dad from your childhood," John says knowingly.

"I was."

"He was different, then?"

"Drastically, John."

**:-:**

Sherlock spent a good half hour walking around the city before he decided it safe to return to Baker Street. Once inside his flat, he heard, to his delight, an indistinct murmur of voice from upstairs. Guess that means John did what he said he would.

_John, I made her cry. –SH_

_**I can tell. –JW**_

_You heard everything. –SH_

_**Every last bit. –JW**_

_You aren't saying you told me so. –SH_

_**Do I need to? –JW**_

Sherlock didn't send a text after that, but John did.

_**Bloody hell, Sherlock. She's loud enough to rouse the entire street. –JW**_

_Dammit, John! –SH_

_**I'm going to talk to her. Get home. Talk to her later this evening. Just do it. –JW**_

Sherlock sneaks up the stairs to John and Amelia's floor and stands near the middle of the staircase and listens in.

"…second chance for the past few years. You know he used to do like, a lot of drugs."

_He does now._

"My stepdad talked my mom into not sending me to England on holidays even after he got clean. Gosh, John! Why do even call him my stepdad? I hate the blerrie cockroach."

"It's what you've been conditioned to do in public, right?"

_Excellent deduction, Dr. Watson._

"Yes. It's my dad's fault for doing drugs in the first place, but I understand how getting addicted gets. You lose control. My mom is gone. Her family in SA hates me, but were willing to take me in. I wanted to come here and live with my dad."

_She chose to come to London? _

"You were expecting the dad from your childhood."

"I was."

"He was different, then?"

_Yes, John. Believe it or not, I cared a bit about emotions so long as they pertained to my one and hopefully only offspring._

"Drastically, John. I started playing the violin because of him. A lot of my memories feature his violin. When I was a fussy, bratty child, he didn't read bedtime stories. He played. Daddy- I mean Dad- composed a piece specially for me. It was like it was my special lullaby, except, he played it whenever he felt like it during the day. I'd always shut up and listen. He started teaching me to play as soon as I was old enough to tuck one under my chin."

Sherlock can't help but to smile to himself at the memory. _Amelia's Song, yes._

"He read chemistry and neurology books to me," Amelia laughs. Loudly. Cheerfully. "Even then, I knew he was strange. But I was strange, too. He's my weird dad and I love him. I just wish he felt the same way."

"He does," John assures her.

_I wouldn't be so quick to assign a word to it, John._

"I know, I know. 'He just has an odd way of showing it.'"

"Which means not showing it at all."

_Clever move, my blogger. Clever._

The pair upstairs exchange a few more words before John excuses himself with the reminder that he's there to talk any time, every time. He seems to have known that Sherlock was eavesdropping; he doesn't even blink when he sees the taller man standing on the staircase, but he does gives him a hand sign telling him to hurry down. Good thing, too, because Amelia comes downstairs shortly after Sherlock clears out.

Doctor Who marathon on the telly. Doctor Who always makes her feel better. Sherlock likes Doctor Who as well, but decides against watching it with her. Too soon. Besides, he's another idea up his sleeves.

Amelia watches about five episodes before she's almost completely asleep. Sherlock spends these five hours looking over his written out sheet music for Amelia's Song just to make sure that he still remembers it. He quietly makes his way into the living room, turns off the telly, and stands a decent three meters from the couch on which Amelia rests. His bow moves across the strings, playing out the quiet, happy melody for the near asleep teenager. He can't give her the happy, fuzzy sentimental dad that she wants. But he can give her a happy memory here and there, and this will hopefully be one of those heres or theres.

Amelia's Song is a piece that usually takes about twelve minutes to play through all the way, but he abbreviates it when he sees that she is on that thin, thin line between rousable and dead to the world.

"Hope you like the couch," he sighs. "I'm not carrying you."

"Mm," she shakes her head and weakly raises her arms.

"Just this once, Rachel Amelia. Just this once."

"Mm mm," she mumbles. "Hm."

Upstairs is too far to carry her, even for a man in his physical condition, so he takes her to the closest room there is- his room. It's not like he actually sleeps there, anyway.

"One time deal," he grumbles, no smile on his face. "I mean it."

He tucks her in and flicks on the ceiling fan. When she makes another one of her indistinct moaning sounds, he half-smiles, points at her, and repeats: "One time deal. I mean it."

* * *

No seriously, one time deal. At least for a long time.

I think I kept Sherlock pretty in character, here. She's his daughter, so of course he cares about her in a very unlike-Sherlock way, but he detests emotions and sentiment. It's not his thing. So, he'd not know how to deal with these emotions. Being a jerk? Sure, seems right.

But then there's the guilt of making her cry. And the hurt of being compared o her stepdad. He doesn't yet know all of the stuff that her stepdad did, but he knows a lot and that it's not pleasant. Being compared to him is the biggest insult he'd ever received and one of the few that ever mattered to him. To make up for their row, he does the one thing he can think of without breaking horribly out of his comfort zone: plays his violin.

- McKala


	4. Vier: Transition

A/N:

I stumbled upon some blogs on Tumblr about South Africa. I'm so happy :']

This chapter is short-ish and pretty uneventful, but I plans soon, fun, exciting plans.

Stuff Amelia says:

Ag man is the Afrikaans equivalent of "oh man!"

Now now means "later."

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Vier: Transition**

* * *

_The great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving_

_Oliver Wendell Holmes_

* * *

Sunlight streaming through the blinds is what wakes her the next morning. She's only lived here for three days, but the angle at which the light is coming in tells her that she's not in her room. It appears to be the right angle for the guest room at Uncle Titus's…has she only be dreaming about being in London, then?

_No, _she finally opens her eyes and doesn't recognize the room she's in. She'd be lying if she said that she wasn't hoping that this was a dream. Rather, a nightmare. _Stop it, _she scolds herself. _You and Dad had a row last night, that's all. Just apologize to him and it'll be all right. Now, whose room am I in? _

Amelia hops out of bed and opens the door and peeks outside. "Living room," she thinks aloud in a whisper. "I slept in Dad's room."

"Logical deduction, Amelia."

"Why?"

Sherlock looks up from his book- something about chemistry- and nods to the couch. "Your room was too far to carry you. You're heavier than you look."

"Thanks…" she says, walking into the living room. "I guess?"

He nods and goes back to reading his book. Silence fills the flat. John is at the surgery, leaving nobody for Sherlock to talk to while Amelia forages for some sort of breakfast. The next half hour or so passes by in silence until Amelia steps out of the kitchen.

"Dad."

"Hm."

Inhale, exhale, and resist the urge to snap. "Look at me. Please."

Obediently, he closes his book and looks up at Amelia who is slowly making her way to the armchair across from him.

"About last night," Amelia forces. "I want to apologize for…everything. It was uncalled for, especially comparing you to Gabriël. Dad you're nothing like him, you're-"

"There isn't need to go overboard, Amelia."

"It's not overboard, Dad. It's the truth. I'm sorry, all right? I shouldn't have said that. I missed having my dad around, and, you know, I don't want to muck it up after three days. I…you…get the idea, I guess."

In vain she hopes that he will reciprocate her apology. Surely even he knows that that is to socially acceptable thing to do! Even if his apology is insincere, she wants it. Unsurprisingly, after a full sixty seconds of complete silence, no such luck. Her father's coldness makes her want to cry (a lot) but she's too angry about other things to let tears of utter sadness take over.

"I'm taking a shower," she says unceremoniously. "I'll try not to leave my bra there again. Heaven forbid you live in a flat with a female and occasionally see one." _No, Amelia you bloody idiot! Don't give him more attitude; it's perfect angel time._

Amelia is just about to close the bathroom door behind her when "Wait. Don't turn around, just stay where you are. I haven't been very kind. For you, Amelia, I can try to be less-"

"Of a blerrie miserable prick?"

"Yeah," she can hear the laughter in his voice. "That."

_John she apologized and I didn't know what to do. –SH_

_**What did you do? –JW**_

_I may have accidentally apologized. –SH_

_**What did you say? –JW**_

_Told her I knew I was being unkind. –SH_

_**And? –JW**_

_I told her that I would try to be less of a miserable prick. –SH_

The lack of a reply told Sherlock that his friend was satisfied with his answer and had returned to doing whatever locum work doctors do.

How dull.

He reaches down to pick up his violin, but pauses when his phone goes off.

_**Did you get my voicemail about Amelia? –MH**_

_No. –SH_

_**I thought not. The headmaster of Bartlett School was impressed with Amelia's file and requested to meet her today. –MH**_

_And you're coming by to take her? –SH_

_**We both are. I'm not her parent, Sherlock. You have to sign the papers. –MH**_

:-:

Showers. Amelia has always enjoyed showers. Maybe it is the way the warm water relaxes her ever-tense shoulder muscles. Maybe it's because it's the best place for her to make an idiot of herself being a human mp3 player. Or maybe it's the voluntary solitude that being in the shower grants a person. It's not like being left out on the playground, not being invited to a party, or being the last one picked for kickball. It's like relaxing in bed with a good book, taking a walk in a park at sunset, or opting to stay home alone while the family goes grocery shopping. There is a fine line between loneliness and hapy solitude. In Amelia's mind, showers rest nicely on the side of happy solitude.

Despite the alone time being her favorite part of a shower and her numerous life changes, she can't help but to slip into her lifelong habit of singing in the shower. With her song indecision, she never can stick to a full song, with commentary thrown in:

Largely undiscovered gems such as Jenny Don't Be Hasty. 'You said you'd marry me, if I was 23. But I'm one that you can't see if I'm only 18. Tell me who made these rules, obviously not you. Who- _ag man _I dropped the soap!'

Pop hits. 'I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas plays. Fold 'em, let 'em, hit me, raise it, baby, stay with me. Love game intuition, play the cards with Spades to start…'

90s grunge, while giving her commentary in tune. 'He's the one, who likes all our pretty songs, and I hope Dad is out, and John is still at work, because this is embarrassing.'

'Someone call the doctor, got a case of a love bi-polar...'

'I kissed a girl and I liked it!'

A rather eclectic range of songs from German-language pop rock to mainstream American pop fill the bathroom while the water runs and afterward. Amelia is mostly silent white she dries off, dresses herself, and she quietly sings 99 Luftballons while she applies minimal makeup for her planned trip to the grocery.

Step 1, foundation. "Hast du etwas Zeit für mich, Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich Von 99 Luftballons-"

Mascara. "99 Luftballons, Auf ihrem Weg-"

Eyeliner. "Hielten sich für Captain Kirk-"

Gloss. "Streichholz und Benzinkanister -Hielten sich für-"

Exit the bathroom. "Mann, wer hätte das gedacht dass-"

Pause, see relatives sitting in the living room with identical smirks.

Lose brain function and keep going for about two seconds. "-Wegen 99-"

Regain control of brain, make a rainbow with hands, and say, not sing, "Luftballons. Yay for luftballons!"

Amelia is surprised to see her uncle and her father sitting in the living room not going at each other like seas turtles vying for a mate. Immediately, the youngest Holmes's face flares with heat from the embarrassment of being caught shower singing by The British Government. And her dad, but mostly, it's the Government she's embarrassed about.

Sheepishly, she waves at the men in the armchairs and points to the general direction of the staircase. "I'm just going to go…not here. See y'all now now."

"I don't understand that lexical regionalism, but I'm going to assume that it means the opposite of what I think it does."

"You're such a posher Uncle Mycroft," giggles Amelia. She playfully mocks his accent while she begins to walk away, "'I use flowery phrases like lexical regionalism because I'm a posh government official.'"

Sherlock smirks at his daughter's mockery, wishing that it were more disdainful than playful, but he'll take what he can get. "Actually, Amelia. We would greatly appreciate it if you joined us."

Amelia raises her eyebrows and cautiously pauses in the door frame to the staircase. "This…isn't like the time you tag-teamed me about the difference between 'England' and the 'United Kingdom' is it? Again, in my defense, I was seven."

"Just sit," Sherlock sighs, his exasperation showing.

Not wanting to risk another tiff, she throws herself onto the couch opposite the men. "Is there any particular reason for this family chat? Mycroft is here, there must be a reason."

"I need to have a reason to visit my brother and favorite niece?"

Amelia grins at the eldest Holmes. "Niece, no. Brother, considering the two of you don't get on, yes. So, what is it?"

"You," Mycroft begins. "Are a teenager. Teenagers belong in school. The headmaster of an excellent school just outside of the city was quite impressed by your information."

"He's an old acquaintance of yours, isn't he?"

"Yes, but the bit about him being impressed is true. He wants to meet you today to see if you live up to your file."

Amelia cracks her knuckles as a nervous habit and examines the men's faces. "By 'excellent school,' how do you mean?"

Sherlock cuts off his brother before he can begin. "Bartlett International is a boarding and day school. A fair number of boarders are international students, but most are from the United Kingdom or Ireland. Most of the day students are from London, and there are a handful of scholarship students."

"Ag man," Amelia groans. "It's a prissy rich kid school, isn't it?"

"We went to Bartlett," Sherlock says monotonously.

"Exactly my point," she laughs. "Oh come on, Dad, don't pretend that you two didn't grow up upper crust British society. Mycroft's told me too many stories- and I've been to the Holmes Estate. You could fit four of my childhood homes there. Anyway, I don't mind. My old school was full of German expats, some of which were Richie Riches compared to the general population. I'll manage."

"You will do more than manage," Mycroft says with confidence. "You will excel."

Amelia bursts into a mild fit of laughter and quickly composes herself. "Oh, Mycroft. Ye of too much faith. What time is he expecting me to be there?"

"You've a little under an hour."

"An hour? Under an _hour!_" Amelia leaps from her seat and gestures to her denim shorts and FIFA 2010 tank top. "I need to change my clothes! I didn't even pack anything remotely appropriate enough to- I really need to go clothes shopping. I mean I have my green chiffon hi-low skirt…would that be okay?"

The men stare in confusion, not understanding what 'hi-low' means, and is chiffon a fabric or a brand name?

"Right," Amelia squeals in a panic. "You're my dad and uncle. You're men and you wouldn't know the difference between a hi-low, mini, or pencil skirt if it jumped up and bit you on the arse. Running along, now."

:-:

Amelia is no stranger to 'fancy' schools.

Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria's campus is fairly large. The school itself is comprised of two two-story buildings with several smaller buildings for other purposes. One of the smaller buildings is a workout centre complete with any sort of machine a gym buff could ask for. The interior of DISP was always well-kept and walls were always painted at the slightest evidence of chipping. DISP put a heavy focus on their sports teams, as well as their academics, and was complete with: a football pitch, a cricket field, a baseball diamond, a rugby field, an Olympic swimming pool, a field for archery, a gymnasium specifically for gymnastics, tennis and basketball courts, a volleyball court, and a track around the rugby field. The teachers were obviously paid well above the average teachers' salary and drove nicer, newer cars than Anelle and her lawyer colleagues.

In theory, DSP and Bartlett International are one and the same. Both schools offer the International Baccalaureate programme, which Amelia was in, and both attract students from all over the world. The only difference, really, is that the international students of DISP are expatriates living in the country. The international students of Bartlett are both expats taking residence as well as students sent thousands of miles from home just to attend school.

Theoretically, the schools are the same…until one pays a visit to the BIS campus. Seated on 21 acres of land outside of London, complete with a large metal gate, is Bartlett International School. The sheer size of the campus puts Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria to shame. The fact that members of Britain's elite might attend the school is frightening. She's seen those cheesy movies, about how people that go to 'rich kid' schools are supposed to act a certain way, and allows the childish side of her to take over for a short while as she irrationally fears that they're true.

"Do I have to wear a uniform, Uncle Mycroft?"

The man laughs at her as he extends his hand to help her out of the car. "You have to ask, Amelia dear?"

"A girl can dream," she shrugs. Uniforms are the bane of her existence. "Thanks for ditching whatever government business you're not focusing on for me. Again."

"I have people with whom I can trust minor tasks," he replies. A simple 'you're welcome' has always been too pedestrian for him.

The wait outside of the headmaster's office wasn't even five minutes, but, cliché, feels like a lifetime. The brothers do not so much as look at each other while they wait. Regardless of the slight awkwardness of having both her father and uncle there, Amelia is relieved that Mycroft tagged along. His people skills surpass Sherlock's by a longshot, and if anybody knows how to talk someone up, it's him.

Amelia is about to excuse herself to locate the ladies' room when a door opens and a deep baritone voice laughs out, "Mycroft Holmes. What's it been, five years?"

"Six, David," replies the politician, shaking the headmaster's hand.

"Right then," says the portlier greying man. "Step into my office, you lot. Have a seat, have a seat."

Amelia seats herself in the middle chair and adjusts her posture so that she's comfortable but still looks presentable.

The man opens up a folder at his desk and glances down at it. "Rachel Holmes," he says, offering his hand. "Pleasure meeting you. My name is David Coffrey- your uncle and I attended Bartlett and Cambridge as classmates."

"The pleasure is mine," she says, nervously shaking his hand. "And, um, I usually go by Amelia."

"Yes, Mycroft mentioned that. Apologies," Coffrey beams and takes his eyes off of the folder. "Tell me about yourself, Amelia Holmes."

_No, no, no. He asked it. He asked _the _question. _She wipes her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt while her eyes dart around the room. Inhale, exhale, allow panic for no more than three seconds, clear throat, talk. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything that makes you unique, Ms. Holmes."

"I have a funny accent for one," she chuckles. The glances she gets from her male relatives tell her the humour isn't a good springboard, but what else can she do? Have a panic attack? "On a serious note, I was born in Oxford and grew up in Pretoria, South Africa. I hold dual-citizenship, which my friends always found pretty lekker- I mean- different. I previously attended-" _okay, Ames, it's time to show off your fancy German skills- flawless German speech, activate! _"-Deutsche Internationale Schule Pretoria. I have a wide range of interests, and…there isn't much that I dislike. I'm willing to try almost anything once. When I was five my favourite Disney film was Mulan and I was convinced that I could grow up to be Chinese until I was seven. Talk about crushing a girl's dreams."

To Amelia's relief, Coffrey is _laughing. _"Tell me more about your family."

"I didn't know school interviews were so personal," Amelia chuckles. "All right, I suppose I could start with my Mom's side. My mom was a lawyer. My stepdad was" _a bastard, a murderer, a drunk, a monster who beat me senseless. I have to lie. _"was an airline pilot before a disability rendered him unemployed. I had five step siblings and a half-brother; let's just say that I was never bored. Past tense because my mother and step-dad divorced around two years ago, and my mom died two months ago. My stepdad didn't speak English at all- South Africa has eleven official languages- but he spoke Afrikaans. English was forbidden in the home. My mother's family is of Dutch ancestry and spoke Dutch around me all the time; it's very similar to Afrikaans. I understand Dutch, but cannot speak it. Dear, I'm getting off-topic. What was I talking about? Family! Right, okay, dad's side. I don't know all that much, as until now, I've only been to England to visit. I've met several of my father's cousins and their children, my grandmother, and, of course, my Uncle Mycroft. You went to school with my uncle, I'm sure you know all about him. My dad is a consulting detective and if you want my opinion, he's a remarkably great dad."

Sherlock casts his Amelia a sideward glance, entirely certain that she's lying about that last but, but says nothing and mentally deduces Coffrey: Receding hairline, went to school with Mycroft, so forties. 40. Possibly 41. Married, happily, keeps his ring polished. Obviously his wife doesn't mind his portliness, or maybe, he's stopped caring what she thinks. The more likely reason is that she is also a large woman. He wears his watch on his left hand, so right-handed. Colourful marker lines on his right hand indicates that he's a father of a small child, but the photograph of his children on his desk shows four girls and two boys whom are all too old to leave those marks. One of his daughters must have gotten pregnant a few years ago and had the child. Expensive suit, expensive shoes. Obviously cares about appearances. Body language indicates that he is relaxed and not trying to appear threatening. Evidence of further relaxation presents itself throughout the interview- he likes Amelia.

Coffrey responds to Amelia's latest. "I offer my condolences about your mother."

"Yes," she murmurs. "Thank you."

"I apologize for how personal these questions are, but accepting you to this school under the circumstances is rather unorthodox. This interview is a special favour for Mycroft. We must ensure that you will be an asset to Bartlett."

"You've obviously never been to a girl's slumber party nor had your spine operated on," Amelia jokes, humour being her natural defence. "Fire away, sir."

"What would you change about your pervious school, had you the ability?"

"My old school is fantastic," she answers. "But I would have liked a wider selection of foreign language courses."

"So you have an affinity for language?"

"Yes, sir. I am fluent in English, German, and Afrikaans. I can understand Dutch, and I'm fairly proficient in French after studying it for years. Language comes easily to me, I find it difficult to understand why it is tedious for others."

Headmaster Coffrey scratches his chin and thinks of his next question. Amelia meets Mycroft's glance and searches for signs of approval, disapproval, anything- but he's pokerface. Sherlock isn't, he's obviously disinterested and couldn't care less about the interview- he's here to sign papers, end story.

"Have you ever done something that you regret?"

"Headmaster," Amelia begins slowly. "The answer is a firm no. I've done things that, had I the chance, I would undo, but I have zero regrets. My motto is to live life with no regrets, because at one point, it was exactly what I wanted."

"Impressive answer," Coffrey clears his throat and grins at her father. "What is your least favourite subject in school and why?"

Amelia giggles uneasily and shakes her head. "I don't really have one. I enjoy school, but if I had to pick one, it would be chemistry."

"Why are you interested in Bartlett International?"

"For one, the IB program. Also, the archery. The academics are more important, of course, but archery is quite the bonus."

"Amelia, tell me who your heroes are."

"I have far too many to discuss," she giggles. Nerves, darn nerves.

"Share two."

There are a hundred answers running through her head. Each answer is true for at least one reason: Gandhi, soldiers, doctors, Nelson Mandela, Abraham Lincoln, Katniss Everdeen, Mom and Daddy, my uncle, Susan B. Anthony, feminists, John Lennon, Finn The Human Ayn Rand, Winston Churchill, Elie Wiesel, Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, autistic children, cancer survivors, Julie Andrews, William Wilberforce, David Bowie, The Queen, Alexander Fleming, Hayao Miyazaki, Buddha, Jesus Christ, Paul of Tarsus- excellent answers, some of them, _British _answers.

Out of all of these names, she blurts out: "Dobby the House Elf and Ellen DeGeneres. Oh, no! Can- can I have a do-over? I have better ones."

As expected, Coffrey ignores her request. "Dobby the House Elf, why him?"

She knows that she can't afford to screw up this interview, not this answer. This answer hasto be articulate, has to flawless, has to be intelligent. _Inhale, exhale, avoid Dad's side glare and Mycroft's embarrassed face, inhale, exhale, swallow spit, now swallow again, inhale, speak. _"D-Dobby is my hero because he didn't let being the least of creatures in the wizarding world, define him. He was loyal to Harry until the end, even when it meant severe punishment or, ultimately, death. He fought for better treatment of house-elves, and I feel like anyone could identify with him. Feminists and minority groups who fought for their rights can certainly identify. The significance of Dobby rings true for me because I grew up in post-apartheid South Africa. Apartheid-era South Africa was horribly plagued with stereotypes and racial inequality among other things. I've seen the positive effects of post-apartheid life. I can imagine what it would have been like for Dobby to succeed in seeing house elf equality."

"Can you list some others?"

"Sure. Um, John Lennon, Abraham Lincoln, doctors, Clara Barton, and, I guess my dad would be one."

Coffrey is beaming at the nervous wreck before him by the time she stops talking. "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

"I want to be a doctor," she answers. "I want to be a paediatric surgeon. I'd love to travel, though. See the world, experience other cultures. I could do work with Doctors Without Borders or something after I gain experience."

"Have you ever received a grade that you didn't think you deserved?"

"Yes, sir. My biology teacher once slapped a zero onto my lab report because my lab partner was playing with the pig organs and I didn't stop him. Actually, I was laughing with him…rather loudly. All right, maybe I did deserve a low grade, but I thought that the zero was uncalled for."

Coffrey clears his throat and makes eye contact with Sherlock. "Your brother impressed me with your daughter's file. He neglected to mention how charming she is. Mr. Holmes, Amelia is a perfect fit for Bartlett."

"When can she start?"

"As soon as she can obtain a uniform- as today is Friday, Monday."

"Perfect," Sherlock drones when he's handed the necessary forms. He fills them out as Coffrey continues to talk to Amelia about the school.

In the backseat of the car taking father and daughter back to 221B, Mycroft takes one look at his niece and he laughs. He really, properly, laughs. "Dobby and Ellen DeGeneres."

"Shut up."

:-:

When Amelia filled John in that evening, his reaction was similar. He was pleased to hear that one of her 'better answers' was doctors and that she planned to go into medicine. 'I have a minion,' he said. 'Sherlock should be jealous.'

Amelia is starting to feel like she belongs here. Here being Baker Street. Here being London. She's starting school next week, her dad's flatmate is a cool guy, her uncle is same old Mycroft, and her dad is…Sherlock Holmes. There isn't a way to describe the sonorous-voiced man to the degree necessary for an exhaustive description. _He's Daddy. No matter what, he's always going to be Daddy. _

He's clean, now. No drugs. No heroin. Not even cigarettes.

It's like Christmas and Hanukkah all in one. Chrismakkah.

"Amelia."

"Ah!" she screams and falls off of her bed, knocking her head against the bedframe. "Ouch!"

Sherlock rushes forward and sits on the edge of her bed. "Let me see."

"I'm fine, you scared me is all. Stop playing caring father. Doesn't suit you," she laughs. "Owww."

"I care, Amelia. You know that."

"Used to know. I'm know so sure, now."

He purses his lips and moves over so Amelia can sit next to him. "Rachel," he says, not meeting her gaze. He only ever calls her by her first name alone when he's being serious. Usually, it's 'Amelia' or 'Rachel Amelia.' Never is it just 'Rachel.'

Amelia says nothing and inches a bit closer to him, maybe, possibly, hoping for a hug.

"What you said in Coffrey's office. About me. Don't lie like that again. You can lie about your mother's husband all you want, but not me."

"I was being truthful, Dad. You are one of my heroes, and you're a great dad…sometimes."

"I'm not a hero, Rachel."

"That doesn't mean that you can't be mine."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates and choses to say something else. "I am sorry about your mum. I'm truly sorry, Amelia. And all of the stuff that Gabriël did, the stuff that you're not telling me yet. I never wanted you to go through anything like that. I wanted better for you. Amelia, I wanted so much better for you. As far as being a father goes, I'm rubbish. I hate that you're stuck with me, but I'll never hurt you like that bastard did. You know that I won't, you _do._"

Amelia looks up at her father's face. Emotionless, stoic, pokerface as always except his eyes. In his eyes, is a tinge of apologetic sadness, the kind that is only bred out of love for whomever their apologizing to. He would deny it should she ever bring it up. For this reason, she doesn't mention it. For this reason, all she does is throw her arms around him and cry, allowing her tears to soak his purple shirt. She feels his body go rigid at her close proximity. Rigid is better than pushing her way. It's better any day.

"Daddy. Dad. I love you, and I know it doesn't matter to you, but I do. I know that emotions aren't at all your area, or, whatever. It would just be really nice if you could say it back one day is all."

The consulting detective frowns and awkwardly pats his daughter's back. "I do, Amelia."

"But you can't say it," she counters.

_Sigh, defeated. _"Yes."

She hiccups and cries a little harder. "I miss her."

"I know you do."

"It's my fault. I went for dinner after archery practise w-with some of my teammates. She was supposed to be at-t the school when she was shot. If I hadn't texted her about dinner, she wouldn't have been home."

"But you both would have been home when he showed up later." Sherlock pats her back again. "He was obsessed with you two. He would have lied in wait for you both to get home and killed you, too. There is nothing that you could have done to warrant a better result."

"I want my mom."

"I know."

"W-Who's going to help me at my wedding?"

"Mycroft can wear a dress and do your hair."

Amelia laughs dryly before sobbing some more. "I sound like a spoiled first world white girl, but I s-seriously hate my life."

_My fault, kid. Sorry. Too much touching, I can't. I need to think of an 'out.' _"It will get better, promise." he slides her arms from around him and inches away. "Hey, try getting some sleep. I'm setting you free in the city with my debit card tomorrow. Do try to not go overboard."

Her tears subside and she grins. "Really? You're letting me go shopping? Alone?"

"You're fifteen. No point in babying you. Get sleep, Amelia."

"Goodnight, Dad. Love you."

Sherlock stands up and flicks off the light. "Sleep."


	5. Vyf: Before It Breaks

A/N: Sherlock's got a small, boring case this chapter. The Great Game shows him all PMSing because he hasn't had a good case in a while, so I'm giving him a boring one here.

A BIG thank you to AllThatIWant for teaching me about the UK, particularly England, and the school system!

South Africa has many ethnicities of African people who have very ethnic names. The Zulu and Xhosa are just two- so any 'whoaaa that's a really unique' name names mentioned are likely Zulu or Xhosa.

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Vyf: Before It Breaks**

* * *

_I'm all right. Don't I seem to be?_

_Aren't I swinging on the stars?_

_Don't I wear them on my sleeve?_

_-Brandi Carlile "Before It Breaks"_

* * *

"Damn," Amelia moans, clutching her backpack and leaning her head back against the seat of the cab. That was, by far, one of the most eventful mornings of her life and definitely not one she'd like to repeat.

First it was waking up an hour later than she planned.

_She screamed, leapt out of bed, and grabbed the bits of her uniform she could locate and ran for the shower. Five minutes, she timed it. In, wash hair, condition, wash face, get out. She half-arsed her makeup and didn't even bother with her hair._

Then it was the skirt issue.

"_Da-ad!"_

"_A-mel-li-a!"_

"_Where the blerrie hell is my skirt? You said you washed it!"_

"_Ask Mrs. Hudson! Don't tell me you're walking around the flat in your knickers."_

"_Maybe I am! John, close your eyes and don't open them for a very long time!"_

"_Rachel Amelia, you're in your knickers!"_

"_Shove it, Dad. I wouldn't be if you didn't misplace my skirt!"_

_Amelia's feet made a pitter-pat while she ran downstairs to Mrs. Hudson who, fortunately, had the green tartan skirt hung over a chair._

Then it was the phone call for Sherlock.

"_Can't take you to school, offspring. Lestrade called: double homicide in Brixton."_

"_How am I getting to school?"_

_Sherlock waved dismissively. "Hail a cab yourself!"_

There was also the rude driversby who shouted out of their car window at her.

"_Hey, bay-be! Looking good!"_

_What the heck were they expecting her to do? Chase after then screaming 'wait I wanted to have sex with you?'_

Lastly, it was the wedding thing, which she is still red-faced from.

I have to be at Bartlett in an hour, which leaves me enough time to get a fattening McMuffin, _she thought, loathing herself in advance. She couldn't remember the last time she had fast food. She went inside the first McDonald's she came across and purchased a McMuffin, feeling nauseated at the thought of eating it._

_While she ate, she was distracted by the city surroundings and wasn't quite paying attention to the people around her, and was bumped into by a running pedestrian. She began to fall, but a random pair of arms reached out and caught her. _

_Problem? _

_In catching her, the Good Samaritan, a (rather) handsome young man, accidentally French dipped her. Judging by his looks, the dark-haired, green-eyed man couldn't have been older than twenty, was possibly younger than twenty, and appeared to be middle-eastern in ethnicity. "Lucky I caught'cha afore ya fell over," he chuckled, his Scottish accent obvious._

Oh boy, Middle Eastern guy with a Scottish accent? Ugh, my ovaries. _"Yeah," Amelia laughed nervously, not realizing that the man is still French-dipping her._

"_When's the wedding?" sneered a random passer-by._

_Amelia gasped in horror and scrambled to stand back up, ran away from the Scotsman without so much as a 'thank you,' hailed the first cab she came across ,and prayed that she had enough for the fare._

:-:

"John," Sherlock sighs. "Don't say it."

"Say what?" Lestrade butts in.

"What he was about to say about my parenting ability."

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I just think that you could have at least walked Amelia to the end of Baker Street and hailed a cab for her."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows at the youngest of the trio. "Little Amy is here? Sherlock, since when? I would've dropped by yours to say hello!"

"You know about her?" asks John.

"Of course he does," Sherlock says. "Lestrade's known me nearly six years; he met her when she was nine. That is also exactly why I didn't say anything. I can't have a little Amelia-fest in the flat. It'd be off-putting to my thinking. Speaking of Amelia, I've listed the two of you as emergency contacts in the paperwork for her school. You know, just in case I can't be arsed to answer my phone."

Lestrade isn't surprised. After nearly six years of knowing Sherlock, and having seen him interact with the child before, his aloof attitude about her is as expected. "Right," he mumbles. "Anyway, the first victim was shot twice in the…"

:-:

The maximum GCSEs Bartlett allows per student is fourteen. Amelia wanted to take as many as she could, being the overachiever she is, but Sherlock forbade it. She's still taking a decent amount…maybe Bartlett offers summer classes? _No, probably not. _Her timetable is still warm from the printer when it's handed to her. She groans in distress as she examines it. Her old school's timetables were easy to follow, but Bartlett's makes no sense. Classes are each an hour long, which is the simple part, but the order in the day and days of the week jump around. Furthermore, she has no idea how to get to Mrs. Gilbert's classroom for history. Instead of looking for a map like a sensible person, Amelia's pride gets in her way as she meanders through the twists and turns of the hallways until she winds up where she started- at the main hallway. Eventually she finds that there is a directory sign screwed into the wall near the main entrance and uses it to locate all of her classrooms and jots down directions on her timetable.

"You're late again," announces the teacher to the entire class without bothering to look up from her desk. "I hope you have a late pass, Mr. Denning."

Amelia's mouth goes dry and she slips her thumbs underneath the straps of her bag. She rambles, she knows for a fact that she does. "I- today's my first day and I lost myself. Oh, well I don't mean to say that I lost myself as in my sentient, mental self _literally _lost my actual, physical, bodily self. I just…got. Lost. Inside the school. It's a big school. Please shut me up and put me out of my misery."

The teacher is amused and scans the classroom with her eyes. "Class, we have a new student. Her name is Rachel Holmes and she's coming to us all the way from Africa. I trust you will all make her feel welcome."

"Thank you," she half-whispers. "I go by my middle name, actually. Amelia."

"I'll write it in my grade book. Naomi, raise your hand- take a seat next to Naomi, dear."

Amelia weaves her way in between desks and chair legs to get to her newly assigned seat. Naomi turns out to be a peroxide blonde with a suntan and eyes the same colour as the emerald studs in her ears. "Hi," Amelia offers timidly. "Pleasure meeting you."

Naomi groans and looks at her new classmate like she's an annoying little sibling. "Your voice makes me want to throw myself off of the gymnasium roof. Shut up."

"Won't bother you again," Amelia sighs, not sure if she should be offended, amused, or just plain apathetic. _Someone had bitch flakes for breakfast this morning._

The girls pay no more attention to each other for the following half hour. Mrs. Gilbert had handed Amelia a syllabus and had even taken the time to highlight what the class has covered prior to her arrival. Mrs. Gilbert goes on about the League of Nations, a topic that was beaten into her head at DISP, so her notebook remains closed.

Amelia's deduction skills will never be up to her father's par, no matter how badly she wants them to be, but they're good enough to play a little game in her boredom. A glance around the room tells her that there are about twenty-eight students in the classroom. The boy sitting up front must be one of the scholarshipped students judging by the way he hangs on Mrs. Gilbert's every word. The natural blonde on the side of the room is Naomi's friend; they're texting back and forth. The two guys in the back are possibly friends, and if not, are definitely stoner pals. The boy closest to the left side of the room came to school high today. Out of twenty-eight students, she picks out twelve that come from upper crust British society. The other thirteen are comprised of less than ten international students, two or three scholarships, some children of prominent London doctors and lawyers, and one girl whose parents are willing to go into debt to send their daughter to Bartlett. The girl sitting two rows in front has horribly worn shoes and an obviously hand-me-down uniform- must be a genius, then, if they scholarshipped someone so low on the financial chain. _Good for her, _thought Amelia. _Really good for her. _

"You're white," hisses a voice from behind.

Amelia angles her head to the side and speaks from the corner of her lips, "Really? I thought I was a lovely mocha colour. So?"

"You're from Africa," replies the voice, male.

"_South_ Africa. There's a white minority there."

"Oh. What was your name aga-"

"Shut up before you get us both in trouble," Amelia whispers, smiling through her harsh words. "Later."

Mrs. Gilbert makes a droll statement about American politics, sending the class into laughter, and simultaneously distracting herself for the mystery student to slip a folded piece of paper onto the new girl's shoulder. _You have French, next? _Amelia turns to the side, makes it so that her eyes meet his for a split second, and nods. The rest of class passes by quickly with no more words from any classmates, and Naomi, when the bell rings, leaps out of her seat as if she can't get away fast enough. There are adjectives that she can use to describe the peroxide blonde, but, they're rather disparaging so Amelia settles on making a face at her behind her back and ducking out of the classroom.

"Oi, Southie!" Amelia doesn't recognize the voice as that of the boy from class until he throws a balled up piece of paper at her and calls, 'Turn around, yeah?'

When she does turn around, she gets a good look at him for the first time. He's ethnically Asian, East Asian, but his ancestral British roots date quite far back. Without a shadow of a doubt, this classmate is one of the boarding students, and filthy rich. Polite. He's rich but not stuck-up about it (at least not on purpose) and tries not to exploit it. Despite standing a head taller than Amelia, no-name classmate seems like the type to blend in and move through the crowd like someone of shorter stature. Perhaps Amelia's favourite thing about him is that he seems to possess a bit of a rebel soul: his ears clearly have earring holes but are empty because of school policy, his hair is grown out as long it possibly can and still comply with dress code, his shoes are clearly very dark brown instead of black, and instead of a basic tie he wears a bowtie.

"Common courtesy dictates that you learn a girl's name _before_ you chuck paper at her,' she says dryly.

"How else was I t' get your attention? Wes, by the way. Actually, it's Wesley, Wesley Marshall, but I find the second syllable to be superfluous. You are?"

"I have many names," Amelia says, shaking Wes's hand as they pause at his locker for him to gather some books. "The one I prefer is Amelia."

Wes frowns once he's done fiddling around in his locker at the length of her name. "_Four _syllables? Don't you have a like a, a middleish name?"

"Amelia is my first middle name. Rachel Amelia Marlize Holmes…there's a second last name as well, but I'm working on dropping that. I guess you could call me Rachel is you don't it excessively long."

"I hate Rachel," Wes sighs. "I suppose I could call you Marlize, but then I'm afraid it would catch on. If you were ginger I could call you Pond…assuming you were a Doctor Who fan…Amelia it is, then."

Amelia giggles, and then frowns slightly. "I don't know where my next class is."

"How fortuitous, I do. Come along not-Pond! Josie is going to love you!"

"I hope that Jo is the name of a student and not our French teacher."

A faraway grin grown in Wes's face, almost as if the very thought of this Debs person brightens his day. "Josie? Yeah, she's my friend."

"_Just _your friend?" Amelia playfully nudges his side.

Wes's face grows comically red and he stutters out a yes.

Josie turns out to be Josephina Sagan, a cute Jewish girl whom Wes has known since fifth year. She originally hails from Chicago, but with her parents' divorce and mother's remarriage, has lived on a 'beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful' property in Tenby, Wales since she was eight, giving her a fairly thick Welsh accent. Being from Wales, Josie is one of the boarding students at Bartlett. Compared to Amelia's just above average height, Josie, with her messy blonde bob, is quite short. Everything about her physicality screams snob: white-blonde hair, lips barely too thin to be Angelina Jolie's, gorgeous eyes, a rounded backside still obvious through her tartan uniform skirt, breasts that look bigger than they really are because of her short stature, and the fact that she isn't super model thin but still looks like she should be walking the catwalk, but despite her unfair physicality, Josie turns out to be a lovely girl. Granted, one cannot learn a person's true colours from one class period, but Amelia's assumption might have been jealousy, for she's quite average in the chest and bottom departments.

Once Mme. Joubert arrives, she calls Amelia up to the front of class and introduces her just as Mrs. Gilbert did. Madame Joubert speaks with a heavy French accent- _of course, because Bartlett gets their foreign language teachers as native speakers_- and her English is understandable, but unclear. At least this means that her accent will be perfect when teaching the language to students, which, to any students who truly cares about learning a language, is always a bonus.

During French, notes are jotted down, Amelia raises her hand to answer a question but isn't called on, the names of a few classmates are committed to memory, and someone named makes a joke that makes her giggle. Already, she's starting to feel like less of an outsider and more like a normal student. She misses DISP, she misses her friends, her home country…her mom…but she's convinced that there is a reason and greater purpose for all of this transition. Maybe there is a reason that she bumped into Cute Scottish Guy this morning, or that she's met Wes and Josie, or that she's in London with her dad. It's hard to imagine a reason for her mother's murder. When she closes her eyes, all she can see are the vivid images of that day. When her mind has an opportunity to wander, it wanders to that day:

Tholakele Mabuza was the captain of the archery team, but also, Kelly was Amelia's best friend. She remains dear to Amelia's heart, but the chances of seeing Kelly again are slim. After the last archery practice before the big competition in Cape Town, the Mahlangu brothers invited Kelly and Amelia to join them and the rest of the team at an Indian restaurant for dinner and won the girls over with the promise of 'our sister can take you home.' _Of course, _Amelia said to the adorable junior high aged boys. _We wouldn't miss it, would we Kels? _The evening was nothing short of magical. A group at the restaurant played ethnic Indian music, a style that Amelia has always found euphonious, and she couldn't help but to halt her seat-dancing when the primary aged son of the restaurant owner tapped her on the shoulder and offered her his hand and until the day she dies, she will swear that the smile on the little boys face as they danced side-by-side is one of the most beautiful things she ever witnessed.

It will never cease to amaze her how quickly that magical day of archery, food, and Indian music turned into a nightmare of horror, fear, and gore.

_Mom, _she called out in Afrikaans. _Mom, I'm home! Dinner was great but I forgot to bring leftovers…mostly because there weren't any. You'd like the place, they had live ethnic music and great food. Maybe on your birthday I can treat you._

The house was far too quiet when she stopped talking, so she started up again while she dropped her stuff off on the fireplace, on the couch, wherever she could. _The Mahlangu twins shot excellently today, Mom. You were right when you said that they would be little archer prodigies. They beat Kelly today, Mom- _Kelly_, as in Tholakele _Mabuza_ Kelly. Pretty lekker, eh? That hiatus I took from archery while hiding from psycho Gabriël sure took a toll on my skill, but hey, my aim is even better than before. You know what they say, practice makes perfect._

Amelia frowned at the silence. _Come on, Mom. Quit playing around, I know you aren't asleep. _Anelle always waited up no matter how late, no matter how mundane, no matter how routine, no matter what. _Mom?_

She tiptoed through the pitch black living room of their rental home and felt her way up the wall until she found the lightswitch. What she found, a grisly scene, was the last thing that she was expecting. Lying on the dining room floor in a pool of blood pouring from her head was- _Mom! _Amelia screamed. _Mommy? No, no, he was gone! Mom he left us alone! _She should have begun crying, oh, and she tried, but the tears refused to come. She wasn't dead, Amelia rationalized. Nope, no way could Anelle Ten Eyck be dead. She wouldn't do that to her daughter, not then, and not for a very long time.

Even as Amelia tried to deny it, the truth, the ugly truth, was staring her in the face. Her mother was dead. Gone. Nothing but a shell. It took every last bit of determination that the teenager had to get up off of the ground, where she had found herself, run to the kitchen where the landline was kept and frantically dial 10111. She never did finish that phone call, because-

_No! _Amelia mentally shouts. _We don't go there, Holmes. We don't. _Amelia grips her desk until her knuckles go white and pretends to pay attention to what Mme. Joubert is saying.

_Mom_, she allows herself to think. _I'll make you proud…promise, all right? I promise._

:-:

The rest of the school passes by without occasion, other than lunch, which was really only eventful because she met the rest of TIMS. Wes jokingly calls their group of friends The Island of Misfit Toys, and, for good reason. The group ranges from wealthy never-had-to-worry-for-anything kids like Wes and Josie; to boarding students from America, Canada, Spain, and Austria; to scholarshipped students from Manchester and Leeds; to Amelia, and encompassed many ethnicities, religions, and lifestyles. Though none of them fit the archetype of an outcast, the clan members obviously fit in while simultaneously standing out, and after spending just one lunch hour with them, Amelia has deduced that they are all very different people- people that wouldn't typically be linked.

TIMS seems like a perfect place to put out the social feelers. Frankly, Amelia is pleased to have found a safe group like this so quickly. As soon as she mentioned her extracurricular activities, the scholarship student from Leeds, Alex, squealed that she was archery captain.

"We're in need of some new archers," she said. "Mind meeting me tomorrow for a few arrows?"

"Not at all," Amelia grinned. "Thank you."

_Acquaintances, _Amelia reminds herself as she scans around the lunch table. _Not quite friends, but getting there._

* * *

Remember Cute Scottish Guy, he makes an appearance.

Not many chapters will be so 'schoooool day, yaay!' but this is where I wanted to introduce some classmates, some potential friends, etc, etc.


	6. Ses: The Forgotten

A/N: I only own Amelia and her friend and non-Holmes family.

Dankie- Afrikaans- thank you

* * *

**Belofte Maak Skuld / Promises Are Binding**

**Ses: The Forgotten**

* * *

_Well, don't look away from the arms of a bad dream_

_Don't look away, sometimes you're better lost than to be seen_

_Don't look away from the arms of a moment_

_Don't look away from the arms of tomorrow_

_-Green Day 'The Forgotten'_

* * *

"Come on Amelia," Wes begs. "Please let me copy your science, just this once?"

"That's what you said last time," points out Elsie, the archery captain from Leeds.

"And the time before that," Josie adds. "Except it was her French."

"Yesterday as well, but it was my history worksheets. No matter," Amelia grins and slides her science homework across the table. "Try not to make it word for word. I also expect you give it back first thing tomorrow morning."

She slides out of her seat at the library table and bids her friends farewell to head to maths, her last class of the day, early. Just a few steps away from her locker, she hears what sounds like a struggle followed by laughter. Curiosity gets the better of her and she tiptoes over to where the noises are coming from.

"Muzzie," sneers a boy, younger than Amelia but the same age as the hijab-wearing girl he's taunting. A second boy, older than Amelia, knocks the textbooks out of the girl's hand. Amelia watches for another minute or so as the girl is taunted by these two boys until she has a clear plan of action.

_Whoosh! _Her French textbook flies out of her hand into the back of the head of the taller boy, disorienting him long enough for her to viciously tackle the smaller boy. The student in the hijab screams in surprise, but helps Amelia at by pushing a trashcan between her and the older boy.

"It's really mature of you," Amelia taunts once she pulls herself off of the smaller boy. "Having a two against one and picking on a younger student…doesn't seem fair, does it?"

The younger boy, still on the floor, uses his leg to kick Amelia's feet out from under her making her knock her head into a set of lockers. She swears and punches him in the face just before a teacher shouts, 'hey!'

Just like that, Amelia has landed herself in the headmaster's office.

:-:

Headmaster Coffrey's admiration for Mycroft Holmes apparently runs deeper than originally deduced. Coffrey was stunned to see his classmate's niece in his office, especially after just over a week after starting school at Bartlett. The boys, as well as the other girl involved in the fight, were questioned and ultimately, Coffrey took the side of the girls. School policy commands that all four students receive _some _sort of disciplinary treatment but the severity of it is at his discretion.

Leila Nassiri, the victim of the bullying, and Amelia received afterschool detention for that day and phone calls home, which, frankly, Amelia didn't agree with. Nevertheless, here she sits, outside of the school after detention waiting for her dad to pick her up. Four texts have been sent and three calls have been missed…it's been over an hour.

"I like your hijab," Amelia says to the girl sitting next to her. "The flowers. It's cute."

"Thanks," Leila says, bold-voiced, but her shy smile betrays her. "You really think so?"

"I'm not one to give compliments unless I mean them," she replies in true Holmesian fashion. "Small talk for the sake of small talk is dull."

Leila raises her eyebrows and glances at her ally skeptically. "Then what do you call random compliments?"

"Small talk for the purpose of uplifting someone," Amelia says. "My dad isn't going to come, and I highly doubt John or my uncle will. I'm going to start walking, maybe catch a cab. See you around Leila."

She stands up and leans against the wall. To say that she is surprised is an understatement of immeasurable proportion. Walking toward them from the direction of the parking lot is none other than Cute Scottish Guy from last week. Amelia's jaw drops as he approaches Leila and she listens to their exchange-

"_What are you doing here?"_

"_Leila, you are lucky that I intercepted that call. Your parents would have had a cow and a half."_

"_Ah, manana Ramin! Thank you, I owe you."_

"_Aye, you do."_

Amelia stares at the pair of them while she tries to comprehend that Leila and Cute Scottish Guy are…somehow related. Cute Scottish Guy eventually recognizes Amelia as well and steals a few glances her direction until he finally decides to speak up.

"You're Clumsy Sidewalk Girl!"

"_You're_ Scottish Guy!" she decides that it is best to leave out the other adjective. "Ah, you two are…siblings?"

Leila and CSG look at each other and make faces while giggling. "Leila Nassiri? My sister? Goodness, no, not with that posh Londoner accent of hers! She's my cousin, I'm just staying at the auntie's and uncle's for the free living accommodations. Beats living on campus."

He's a uni student, she figured as much. She smiles at him, still stunned to have run into him again, and at Bartlett of all places. "Ag, hey thanks for, um, saving my butt from hitting the pavement the other day. I forgot to thank you after that guy made the wedding joke."

"Yes," he smiles, green eyes twinkling with unvoiced laughter. "That was right ill-mannered of him. Ian, by the way. Ian Shirazi."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Ian Shirazi," he repeats, offering his hand. "My name. Pleased to officially meet you, ah…"

Amelia shakes his hand, though her nerves do get the better of her. "Rachel. No, I mean, Amy. No, Amelia!"

Ian chuckles at the girl. "Well, which is it?"

"All of them," she blushes. "I prefer Amelia. Ian…but Leila called you Ramin?"

"Yes," Ian rolls his eyes. "Technically my name is Ramin, but if you mix up some of the letters you get Ian- easier for English-speakers to remember. My father is Pakistani, mum is Iranian."

"So you and your siblings have real names and English names," Amelia assumes.

"Technically," Ian says, guarded. There's more of a story there, but not one he's about to share so Amelia just smiles and offers a piece of her own. "I'm from South Africa. I, uh, just moved from Pretoria…it's definitely different. Anyway, I should start walking. It's a fair ways to the nearest busy enough road."

She tightens her bookbag straps and turns on her heel.

Leila raises her eyebrows. "Your parents aren't coming?"

"My dad is probably working since he hasn't answered any of my calls or texts."

The shorter teenager grins and nudges her cousin. "We can give you a ride home, right Ian?"

Ian looks at his cousin and shrugs. "If you don't mind forgetting the whole concept of stranger danger, it's no trouble."

Amelia doesn't even think about it. Ian and Leila don't seem like the psycho killer type, so what's the harm? "Thank you for offering- I can give you gas money."

"Don't worry about it," Ian insists. "It's no bother."

:-:

Sherlock sits on the couch with his nose in a book, specifically, in Amelia's journal. It was easy to deduce where she'd hidden it- between the little crack between the headboard and the mattress- and even easier to pick the lock. The earliest entry is dated seven months ago and some of the writing alludes to past events- such as The Bunny Catastrophe of 2008, The Rolf and Kelly Thing, Luther's 'crying cat,' and The Whole Sankt Pölten Trip Fiasco- which had led him to believe that there are more, somewhere, but he hasn't bothered searching. Besides, it's not that he cares all that much about Amelia's life- details are oh so trivial- he's just bored. He does, however, find his daughter's journaling style interesting. She uses a mix of English, Afrikaans, German, and some basic Dutch and French, obviously in an attempt to keep any snoopers from discovering her innermost thoughts.

For most teenage girls, this system would have worked perfectly. Most teenage girls, perhaps for the best, don't have Sherlock Holmes for a father.

Amelia's journal is detailed, but dull. He wishes that he had found one written while Anelle was still married to Gabriël because at least _then _it will be filled with things that he wants to know. Really, he doesn't much care about how well she shot at an archery competition, or how many times she spiked the ball over the net, or who she lost her virginity to, or how the South African police almost caught her and her friends from the girls' football team smoking marijuana near the Apiesrivier so long as she doesn't get into harder drugs, nor does he care about 'what my therapist says.'

If a word must be attached to it, he is worried about her…slightly.

He isn't quite willing to admit to himself that he's feeling like her dad right now. In fact, he will probably never be willing to admit it. Regardless, Amelia is his responsibility from now on. Although, how hard can looking after a nearly-grown girl be?

When the air in the room changes, Sherlock can tell that someone has entered the room. "Back with the shopping already? I hope it was not another row with a chip-and-pin machine."

The high-pitched voice tells him it wasn't John that just walked in the door. "I called. I texted. Where were you?"

"You mean to tell me," Sherlock's eyes stayed glued to the journal. "That it was you who kept ringing?"

"You never answered."

He pretends not to notice the hurt on her face when he steals a glance. "It was on the other side of the room."

"If you'd have bothered to pick up your phone you would have known that I was involved in a fight at school and had to stay after."

"And?"

She shrugs and moves a strand of her brunette wavy-curls behind her ear. Despite the potential for anger and sass in her response, it's delivered with an even, respectful tone. "It just would have been nice if you showed up to take me home is all. The least you could have done was gotten off your arse and answered your phone. At least pretend that it matters, would it kill you?"

"I don't want to fight again," Sherlock says.

"Neither do I," Amelia shrugs and turns toward the kitchen. "I was going to make tea do you want some?"

"May as well make one for John as well," he replies. "Amelia…why don't you tell me what that fight was about over tea?"

"Sure," the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. "Just put my journal back when you're done with it. That's my safe-for-Dad's-eyes journal…you'll never find the others."

"Is that a challenge?"

"A promise."

:-:

She promised herself that she wouldn't, honest she did, but she lets it happen anyway. She allows a few silent tears to fall into a dishcloth. Today marks exactly ten weeks since she came home to find her mother murdered. Her stepfather has been charged with the murder, but today also marks three weeks and one day since somebody posted his bail. A final date on the murder trial has yet to be determined and she's counting the days until one is.

She doesn't see the point of having one. Gabriël Prinsloo killed Anelle Ten Eyck and attempted to do the same to Amelia Holmes. Why (other than South Africa's 1995 abolition of the death penalty) not just gather up a firing squad or something and shoot him? Why does there have to be some lengthy trial? Who in Gauteng province would even defend him in a court of law? For that matter, what lawyer in KwaZulu-Natal, Limpopo, and Free State provinces would?

Anelle was not only a lawyer, but a well-respected one. Her name was known throughout the entire nation, as well as The Netherlands, Germany, and a few other countries where she participated in court cases of international interest. There's no way that the trial can be held in Gauteng- perhaps not even KwaZulu-Natal, Free State, or Limpopo, as Anelle was especially respected in those three provinces. Perhaps the trial could be held in one of the three Cape provinces; after all, Amelia has listened to her mother rant about how much she disliked some of her colleagues, and she can remember several names from Eastern, Western, and Northern Cape. One man in particular, Xhosa-English defense lawyer James Gambu, is notorious for getting off obvious murderers and rapists.

Gambu most likely will not be Gabriël's lawyer but no matter what he will find a good one. If he is acquitted, she doesn't know what she'll do. He took her mother away from her, he stabbed her with a kitchen knife while she tried to phone police, prior to all of that, he beat her and verbally berated her throughout her childhood.

He deserves to rot.

Gabriël is a despicable creature, but greater than her anger is the longing for her mother. She wants nothing more than to wake from this horrible nightmare and cry into Anelle's arms while she sings Lamtietie, Damtietie to her until she stops. She hates the English weather, hates how people poke fun at her accents, and most all, hates seeing girls walk around with their mums. Knowing that she will never see her mum again makes her blood boil and heart break all over again. Worse, still, is the fact that she is entirely alone.

Who is there to share in her grief? Nobody.

Who cares enough to listen? Maybe Mycroft.

Who is willing to listen? Not even Mycroft.

This isn't the first time in her life that Amelia has had to suffer in silence, and like those other times, she'll make it. She has always found a way to cope. No matter how long it had taken her she always found a way.

For now, crying into dishcloths is it. Until she finds something better, it works just fine. So she continues to cry. Shamelessly, she allows her tears to fall into the dishcloth while the kettle warms. Her little gaspy breaths are nearly silent which prevents Sherlock from hearing her cry…not that she wants him to. He doesn't know what to do about emotional things like tears and comfort, so she hopes he can stay in the dark.

For a brief moment, she is afraid that he has caught her. A hand is placed on her shoulder and much to her relief it is John, back with the shopping. Amelia scrambles to compose herself and quickly apologizes.

"No don't," John says, keeping his hand on her shoulder. "You're going through a lot right now, it's okay to cry."

"It's bothersome," she mumbles. "You two shouldn't have to…have to deal with it."

John sighs and puts away the shopping and takes over the tea-making. "I had a friend, a best friend, back in medical school," he says. "Hugo Kelsey. We met in tenth year when his family moved from Wales to my neighbourhood but didn't really become close friends until we started university. Hugo had a rough time at school, especially after he came out in twelfth year. This was- goodness, I'm _that_ old- around twenty or so years ago and people weren't as tolerant and accepting as they are now. People at uni were mostly accepting, but there was a group of students who weren't. Ultimately, they got the best of him and Hugo hung himself in a campus stairwell a term and a half before we were to complete medical school. It took me a long time to be able to talk about it, and an even longer time to think about him without feeling very sad. But do you want to know how I eventually got through it?"

Amelia nods. "Yes, please."

John smiled and continued making the tea. "I thought, 'Don't linger on the fact that he's gone, think about how lucky you were to be his friend while we was here.' On days when the sadness, anger, loss, and abandonment became too much for me, I thought about how lucky I was that while he was alive, he was my friend. I know that losing a mother isn't the same as losing a friend, believe me, I understand…but on days when it hurts worse than usual, try to be happy that your mom existed, be happy that she was _your _mom. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"I think so," Amelia says, dabbing her eyes with the dishcloth.

"Your father cares about you," he adds. "He doesn't know how to show it, but he does."

"How do you know?"

"He looks at you like you hang the moon," John laughs. "He bragged about you on one of those small cases he had last week, actually. The suspect's daughter was playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at the family's restaurant and he whispered, 'My daughter has been playing it better since she was nine.'"

"_Dankie. _John, um, thank you. Your advice…I'll try. The thing about my dad, as well."

"Give it time," John says. "Sherlock will come 'round, I have a strong feeling."

:-:

The consulting criminal grins at the photographs in his hands.

As if Sherlock Holmes wasn't already fun enough to toy with, a new revelation has fallen into his lap. It would seem that Holmes the younger has an offspring- might he add, quite the average-looking offspring. She certainly looks like her father's daughter, other than her bright blue eyes. With the pair of them being so similar in appearance he can't help but to wonder if they're similar in other respects.

Amelia Holmes. Even her name is quite plain compared to her father's and uncle's, perhaps her intellect is, as well.

_There is only one way to find out,_ he smirks at his reflection in the window.

Oh, he doesn't plan on involving her in his schemes just yet. No, even he has a heart- albeit, a very small one.

He'll bide his time, or perhaps send somebody after her. Not to kill her, for it is too early in the game, but scaring the living daylights out of her is certainly an option.

Placing the photographs back into the manila envelope, he scratches at his stubble and stares out the window. He was excited before, but now? He is bursting with exhilaration of the most twisted kind.


End file.
